"My love is like the sea,
As changeful and as free;
Sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough,
Yet oft she's smooth and calm enough--
Ay, much too calm for me."
It is Perpetua. A sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed Perpetua, but a lovely
Perpetua for all that.
"Well?" says he.
"_Sh!_" says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her
forefinger against her lip. "Come in here," says she softly, under her
breath.
"Here," when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of all
things heterogeneous. Now that he is nearer to her, he can see that she
has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thick within
her eyes.
"I felt I _must_ see you," says she, "to tell you--to ask you. To--Oh!
you _heard_ what she said! Do--do _you_ think----?"
"Not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly.
"Don't--_don't_ cry, Perpetua! Look here," laying his hand nervously
upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. "_Don't_ cry!
Good heavens! Why should you mind that awful old woman?"
Nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very
considerably.
"But--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "I know that myself, and yet--"
wistfully--"I can't help it. I _do_ want to see things, and to amuse
myself."
"Naturally," says the professor.
"And it isn't that I _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense tone,
"I _never_ forget him--never--never. Only I do want to laugh sometimes
and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I."
The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress a smile.
"I'm afraid, from what I have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," says
he.
"It will make me cry then. It is all the same," declares she,
impartially. "I shall be enjoying myself, I shall be _seeing_ things.
You--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"Haven't you seen
him?"
"Not for a long time, I regret to say. I--I'm always so busy," says the
professor apologetically.
"_Always_ studying?" questions she.
"For the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing
within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself.
"'All work and no play,'" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakes her
charming head at him. "_You_ will be a dull boy if you don't take care,"
says she.
A ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and
lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. Then it fades, and
she grows sorrowful again.
"Well, _I_ can't study," says she.
"Why not?" demands the professor quickly. Here he is on his own ground;
and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, an enigmatical, but a
lovely one. "Believe me knowledge is the one good thing that life
contains worth having. Pleasure, riches, rank, _all_ sink to
insignificance beside it."
"How do you know?" says she. "You haven't tried the others."
"I know it, for all that. I _feel_ it. Get knowledge--such knowledge as
the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. I can lend
you some books, easy ones at first, and----"
"I couldn't read _your_ books," says she; "and--you haven't any novels,
I suppose?"
"No," says he. "But----"
"I don't care for any books but novels," says she, sighing. "Have you
read 'Alas?' I never have anything to read here, because Aunt Jane says
novels are of the devil, and that if I read them I shall go to hell."
"Nonsense!" said the professor gruffly.
"You mustn't think I'm afraid about _that_" says Perpetua demurely; "I'm
not. I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me for
long, so _I'm_ all right."
The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to
mirth.
"Ah! _now_ you are on my side," cries his ward exultantly. She tucks her
arm into his. "And as for all that talk about 'knowledge'--don't bother
me about that any more. It's a little rude of you, do you know? One
would think I was a dunce--that I knew nothing--whereas, I assure you,"
throwing out her other hand, "I know _quite_ as much as most girls, and
a great deal more than many. I daresay," putting her head to one side,
and examining him thoughtfully, "I know more than you do if it comes to
that. I don't believe you know this moment who wrote 'The Master of
Ballantrae.' Come now, who was it?"
She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if anticipating
his defeat. As for the professor, he grows red--he draws his brows
together. Truly this is a most impertinent pupil! 'The Master of
Ballantrae.' It _sounds_ like Sir Walter, and yet--The professor
hesitates and is lost.
"Scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command.
"Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "Oh! you
_ignorant_ man! Go buy that book at once. It will do you more good and
teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes."
She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way,
that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good.
She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if
thinking, but now looks up at him.
"If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't you
think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She has come
nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon his arm.
"I am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and
putting them on again in an anxious fashion. They are both speaking in
whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of
pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her. "Besides,"
says he, "I couldn't very well come here again."
"Not come again? Why?"
"I'd be afraid," returns he simply. Whereon Miss Wynter, after a
second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would have
said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light.
"Ah! yes," murmurs she. "How she did frighten you. She brought you to
your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took her part
against me."
"I took her part to _help_ you;" says the professor, feeling absurdly
miserable.
"Yes," sighing, "I daresay. But though I know I should have suffered for
it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear somebody
tell her his real opinion of her for once. I should like," calmly, "to
see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often."
"This is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly.
"Yes? Then why don't you take me away from it?"
"If I could----but----Well, I shall see," says he vaguely.
"You will have to be very quick about it," says she. Her tone is quite
ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there is
meaning beneath it.
"You have _some_ friends surely?" says he.
"There is a Mrs. Constans who comes here sometimes to see Aunt Jane. She
is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of Aunt Jane's, which
accounts for it, I suppose. She seems kind. She said she would take me
to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days, I daresay
she has forgotten all about it by this time."
She sighs. The charming face so near the professor's is looking sad
again. The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. No, she cannot
stay _here_, that is certain--and yet it was her father's wish, and who
is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know how girls should be
treated? What if he should make a mistake? And yet again, should a
little brilliant face like that know sadness? It is a problem difficult
to solve. All the professor's learning fails him now.
"I hope she will remember. Oh! she _must_," declares he, gazing at
Perpetua. "You know I would do what I could for you, but your aunt--you
heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me."
"True," says Perpetua. Here she moves back, and folds her arms stiffly
across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive fashion, that
creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the youthful eyes, and brow,
and hair. "'Young _gentle_women in _our_ time, Mr. Curzon, never, went
out walking, _alone_, with _A Man_!"
The mimicry is perfect. The professor, after a faint struggle with his
dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together.
"'_Our_' time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says Miss
Wynter.
"Well, so I am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly.
"No, you're not," says she. "_I_ know better than that. I," patting his
arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I can see _at
once_, that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa. In fact,
you may be younger. I am perfectly certain you are not more than fifty."
The professor says nothing. He is staring at her. He is beginning to
feel a little forlorn. He has forgotten youth for many days, has youth
in revenge forgotten him?
"That is taking off a clear hundred all at once," says she lightly. "No
small amount." Here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly at
him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she goes on
hurriedly. "Oh! and what is age after all? I wish _I_ were old, and then
I should be able to get away from Aunt Jane--without--without any
_trouble_."
"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor
gravely.
"I _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able to stay
here. Oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?"
Why indeed? That is exactly what the professor finds great difficulty in
explaining to her. An "old man" of "fifty" might very easily give a home
to a young girl, without comment from the world. But then if an "old man
of fifty" _wasn't_ an old man of fifty----The professor checks his
thoughts, they are growing too mixed.
"We should have been _so_ happy," Perpetua is going on, her tone
regretful. "We could have gone everywhere together, you and I. I should
have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to afternoons. You
would have been _so_ happy, and so should I. You would--wouldn't you?"
The professor nods his head. The awful vista she has opened up to him
has completely deprived him of speech.
"Ah! yes," sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect good faith.
"And you would have been good to me too, and let me look in at the shop
windows. I should have taken such _care_ of you, and made your tea for
you, just," sadly, "as I used to do for poor papa, and----"
It is becoming too much for the professor.
"It is late. I must go," says he.
* * * * *
It is a week later when he meets her again. The season is now at its
height, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into a
fashionable thoroughfare, he there finds he.
Marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughts in
the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling his name
brings him back to the fact that he is walking up Bond Street.
In a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her face wreathed in
smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sits Perpetua. Evidently the
owner of the carriage is in the shop making purchases, whilst Perpetua
sits without, awaiting her.
"Were you going to cut me?" cries she. "What luck to meet you here. I am
having such a _lovely_ day. Mrs. Constans has taken me out with her, and
I am to dine with her, and go with her to a concert in the evening."
She has poured it all out, all her good news in a breath, as though sure
of a sympathetic listener.
He is too good a listener. He is listening so hard, he is looking so
intensely, that he forgets to speak, and Perpetua's sudden gaiety
forsakes her. Is he angry? Does he think----?
"It's _only_ a concert," says she, flushing and hesitating. "Do you
think that one should not go to a concert when----"
"Yes?" questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full
stop. He has never seen her dressed like this before. She is all in
black to be sure, but _such_ black, and her air! She looks quite the
little heiress, like a little queen indeed--radiant, lovely.
"_Well_--when one is in mourning," says she somewhat impatiently, the
color once again dyeing her cheek. Quick tears have sprung to her eyes.
They seem to hurt the professor.
"One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is still
unfortunate.
"You evade the question," says she frowning. "But a concert _isn't_ like
a ball, is it?"
"I don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little knowledge
of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises solely from
inability to give her an honest reply.
"You hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. But," defiantly, "I
don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball."
"No--I suppose not!"
"I can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her
mortification. "And it is very _hard_ of you. Just because _you_ don't
care to go anywhere, you think _I_ oughtn't to care either. That is what
is so selfish about people who are old. You," wilfully, "are just as bad
as Aunt Jane."
The professor looks at her. His face is perplexed--distressed--and
something more, but she cannot read that.
"Well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "But nearly.
And if you don't take care you will grow like her. I hate people who
lecture me, and besides, I don't see why a guardian should control one's
whole life, and thought, and action. A guardian," resentfully, "isn't
one's conscience!"
"No. No. Thank Heaven!" says the professor, shocked. Perpetua stares at
him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh.
"You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience," says
she, a little angry in spite of her mirth. "Well, I don't want you to
have anything to do with it. That's _my_ affair. But, about this
concert,"--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge of the
carriage. "Do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearing black?"
"I think one should do just as one feels," says the professor nervously.
"I wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels," says she. She draws
back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she breaks
out again. "What a _horrid_ answer! _You_ are unfeeling if you like!"
"_I_ am?"
"Yes, yes! You would deny me this small gratification, you would lock me
up forever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me from everything! Oh!" her
lips trembling, "how I wish--I _wish_--guardians had never been
invented."
The professor almost begins to wish the same. Almost--perhaps not quite!
That accusation about wishing to keep her locked up forever with Miss
Majendie is so manifestly unjust that he takes it hardly. Has he not
spent all this past week striving to open a way of escape for her from
the home she so detests! But, after all, how could she know that?
"You have misunderstood me," says he calmly, gravely. "Far from wishing
you to deny yourself this concert, I am glad--glad from my _heart_--that
you are going to it--that some small pleasure has fallen into your life.
Your aunt's home is an unhappy one for you, I know, but you should
remember that even if--if you have got to stay with her until you become
your own mistress, still that will not be forever."
"No, I shall not stay there forever," says she slowly. "And so--you
really think----" she is looking very earnestly at him.
"I do, indeed. Go out--go everywhere--enjoy yourself, child, while you
can."
He lifts his hat and walks away.
"Who was that, dear?" asks Mrs. Constans, a pretty pale woman, rushing
out of the shop and into the carriage.
"My guardian--Mr. Curzon."
"Ah!" glancing carelessly after the professor's retreating figure. "A
youngish man?"
"No, old," says Perpetua, "at least I think--do you know," laughing,
"when he's _gone_ I sometimes think of him as being pretty young, but
when he is _with_ me, he is old--old and grave!"
"As a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says Mrs. Constans,
smiling. "His back looks young, however."
"And his laugh _sounds_ young."
"Ah! he can laugh then?"
"Very seldom. Too seldom. But when he does, it is a nice laugh. But he
wears spectacles, you know--and--well--oh, yes, he _is_ old, distinctly
old!"