"A maid so sweet that her mere sight made glad men sorrowing."
Nevertheless the man in the bush doesn't get her.
Time has run on a little bit since the professor suffered many agonies
on a certain raw February morning, and now it is the 30th of May, and a
glorious finish too to that sweet month.
Even into this dingy old room, where at a dingy old table the professor
sits buried in piles of notes, and with sheets of manuscript knee-deep
scattered around him, the warm glad sun is stealing; here and there, the
little rays are darting, lighting up a dusty corner here, a hidden heap
of books there. It is, as yet, early in the afternoon, and the riotous
beams, who are no respecter of persons, and who honor the righteous and
the ungodly alike, are playing merrily in this sombre chamber, given so
entirely up to science and its prosy ways, daring even now to dance
lightly on the professor's head, which has begun to grow a little bald.
"The golden sun, in splendor likest heav'n,"
is proving perhaps a little too much for the tired brain in the small
room. Either that, or the incessant noises in the street outside, which
have now been enriched by the strains of a broken-down street piano,
causes him to lay aside his pen and lean back in a weary attitude in his
chair.
What a day it is! How warm! An hour ago he had delivered a brilliant
lecture on the everlasting Mammoth (a fresh specimen just arrived from
Siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. He had done
well--he knew that--he had been _interesting_, that surest road to
public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, worn out,
tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest joy in his
success.
In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. A knock
at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and the
knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of
fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand.
"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the
professor.
She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able to
see through the professor's gravity and find him _young_.
"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it
languidly, and----Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal of
it.
The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; and
re-reads it. _That girl has come!_ There can't be any doubt of it. He
had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil months,
when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_ she is at
last, descending upon him like a whirlwind.
A line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the
unwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie," therefore there
can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in it. Yes!
that girl _has_ come!
The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way to
reprehensible words.
Instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on immediate
action. To call upon this ward of his is a thing that must be done
sooner or later, then why not sooner? Why not at once? The more
unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's mind without
delay.
He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again.
"I must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at her.
"An' a good thing too," says she. "A saint's day ye might call it, wid
the sun. An' where to, sir, dear? Not to thim rascally sthudents, I do
thrust?"
"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I--I am going to see a young lady," says the
professor simply.
"The divil!" says Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming smile. "Faix, that's a
turn the right way anyhow. But have ye thought o' yer clothes, me dear?"
"Clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely.
"Arrah, wait," says she, and runs away lightly, in spite of her fifty
years and her too, too solid flesh, and presently returns with the
professor's best coat and a clothes brush that, from its appearance,
might reasonably be supposed to have been left behind by Noah when he
stepped out of the Ark. With this latter (having put the coat on him)
she proceeds to belabor the professor with great spirit, and presently
sends him forth shining--if not _in_ternally, at all events
_ex_ternally.
In truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. Sitting in the hansom
that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he dwells with
terror on the girl--the undesired ward--who has been thrust upon him. He
has quite made up his mind about her. An Australian girl! One knows what
to expect _there_! Health unlimited; strength tremendous; and
noise--_much_ noise.
Yes, she is sure to be a _big_ girl. A girl with branching limbs, and a
laugh you could hear a mile off. A young woman with no sense of the
fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing could shake,
that "'Strailia" is _the_ finest country on earth! A bouncing creature
who _never_ sits down; to whom rest or calm is unknown, and whose
highest ambition will be to see the Tower and the wax-works.
Her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black locks
over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been pitchforked
on to her, and requires only the insubordination of _one_ pin to leave
her without it again.
The professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one
prepared for _anything_ as the maid shows him into the drawing-room of
the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives.
His thoughts are still full of her niece. _Her_ niece, poor woman, and
_his_ ward--poor _man_! when the door opens and _some one_ comes in.
_Some one!_
The professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the advancing
apparition. Is it child or woman, this fair vision? A hard question to
answer! It is quite easy to read, however, that "some one" is very
lovely!
"It is you; Mr. Curzon, is it not?" says the vision.
Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still
_very_ sweet. She is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep
mourning. There is something pathetic about the dense black surrounding
such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. Her eyes are fixed on
the professor, and there is evident anxiety in their hazel depths; her
soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating as if not knowing whether she
shall smile or sigh. She has raised both her hands as if unconsciously,
and is holding them clasped against her breast. The pretty fingers are
covered with costly rings. Altogether she makes a picture--this little
girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black
clinging gown. Dainty-sweet she looks,
"Sweet as is the bramble-flower."
"Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means
certain of the fact. He is so vague about it, indeed, that "some one's"
dark eyes take a mischievous gleam.
"Are you _sure_?" says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little
sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort
of little laugh. It rings through the room, this laugh, and has the
effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. She checks herself,
and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one
little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at
the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her. She
sighs softly.
"Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Jane is
out--_I'm glad to say_"--this last pianissimo.
"To see you," says the professor absently. He is thinking! He has taken
her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of high
bewilderment.
Is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? The bouncing
creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on to her?
"Well--I hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him,
every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden shyness.
After many days the professor grows accustomed to these sudden
transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these rapid,
inconsequent, but always lovely changes
"From grave to gay, from lively to severe."
"Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess gently, touching a chair
near her with her slim fingers.
"Thank you," says the professor, and then stops short.
"You are----"
"Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is
plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up at him
in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't you?"
"Yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. He has seated himself,
not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very distant
lounge. He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. This lovely
child has created it, yet why, or how? Was ever guardian mastered by a
ward before? A desire to escape is filling him, but he has got to do his
duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it.
He has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as
distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. Miss
Wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him, and
seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands over her
knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming smile.
"_Now_ we can have a good talk," says she.