"Take it to thy breast;
Though thorns its stem invest,
Gather them, with the rest!"
"She is unbearable. _Unbearable!_" returns Perpetua vehemently. "When I
came back from the concert to-night, she----But I won't speak of her. I
_won't_. And, at all events, I have done with her; I have left her. I
have come"--with decision--"to stay with you!"
"Eh?" says the professor. It is a mere sound, but it expresses a great
deal.
"To stay with you. Yes," nodding her head, "it has come to that at last.
I warned you it _would_. I couldn't stay with her any longer. I hate
her! So I have come to stay with you--_for ever_!"
She has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a
life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for
herself.
"Great heavens! What do you mean?" asks the poor professor, who should
have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls back upon the
good old formula. He sinks upon the table next him, and makes ruin of
the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still wet--even whilst
Hardinge was with him. Could he only have known it, there are first
proofs of them now upon his trousers.
"I have told you," says she. "Good gracious, what a funny room this is!
I told you she was abominable to me when I came home to-night. She said
dreadful things to me, and I don't care whether she is my aunt or not, I
shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--I'm afraid I wasn't nice to
her. I'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of stone, you know, and
she said something--about my mother," her eyes grow very brilliant here,
"and when I walked up to her she apologized for that, but afterwards she
said something about poor, _poor_ papa--and ... well, that was the end.
I told her--amongst _other_ things--that I thought she was 'too old to
be alive,' and she didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much
as that, though they were awful. At all events," with a little wave of
her hands, "she's lectured me now for good; I shall never see _her_
again! I've run away to you! See?"
It must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. He is still
sitting on the edge of the table--dumb.
"Oh! I'm so _glad_ I've left her," says Perpetua, with indeed heartfelt
delight in look and tone. "But--do you know--I'm hungry. You--you
couldn't let me make you a cup of tea, could you? I'm dreadfully
thirsty! What's that in your glass?"
"Nothing," says the professor hastily. He removes the half-finished
tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard.
"It looked like _something_," says she. "But what about tea?"
"I'll see what I can do," says he, beginning to busy himself amongst
many small contrivances in the same cupboard. It has gone to his heart
to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst of his
preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes possession of him.
He pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her.
"You must be _mad_!" says he.
"Mad? Why?" asks she.
"To come here. Here! And at this hour!"
"There was no other place; and I wasn't going to live under _her_ roof
another second. I said to myself that she was my aunt, but you were my
guardian. Both of you have been told to look after me, and I prefer to
be looked after by you. It is so simple," says she, with a suspicion of
contempt in her tone, "that I wonder why you wonder at it. As I
preferred _you_--of course I have come to live with you."
"You _can't_!" gasps the professor, "you must go back to Miss Majendie
at once!"
"To _her_! I'm not going back," steadily. "And even if I would,"
triumphantly, "I couldn't. As she sleeps at the top of the house (to get
_air_, she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you were
black in the face, and she wouldn't hear you."
"Well! you can't stay here!" says the professor, getting off the table
and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness.
"Why can't I?" There is some indignation in her tone. "There's lots of
room here, isn't there?"
"There is _no_ room!" says the professor. This is the literal truth.
"The house is full. And--and there are only men here."
"So much the better!" says Perpetua, with a little frown and a great
deal of meaning. "I'm tired of women--they're horrid. You're always kind
to me--at least," with a glance, "you always used to be, and _you're_ a
man! Tell one of your servants to make me up a room somewhere."
"There isn't one," says the professor.
"Oh! nonsense," says she leaning back in her chair and yawning softly.
"I'm not so big that you can't put me away somewhere. _That woman_ says
I'm so small that I'll never be a grown-up girl, because I can't grow up
any more. Who'd live with a woman like that? And I shall grow more,
shan't I?"
"I daresay," says the professor vaguely. "But that is not the question
to be considered now. I must beg you to understand, Perpetua, that your
staying here is out of the question!"
"Out of the----Oh! I _see_" cries she, springing to her feet and turning
a passionately reproachful face on his. "You mean that I shall be in
your way here!"
"No, _no_, NO!" cries he, just as impulsively, and decidedly
very foolishly; but the sight of her small mortified face has proved too
much for him. "Only----"
"Only?" echoes the spoiled child, with a loving smile--the child who has
been accustomed to have all things and all people give way to her during
her short life. "Only you are afraid _I_ shall not be comfortable. But I
shall. And I shall be a great comfort to you too--a great _help_. I
shall keep everything in order for you. Do you remember the talk we had
that last day you came to Aunt Jane's? How I told you of the happy days
we should have together, if we _were_ together. Well, we are together
now, aren't we? And when I'm twenty-one, we'll move into a big, big
house, and ask people to dances and dinners and things. In the
meantime----" she pauses and glances leisurely around her. The glance is
very comprehensive. "To-morrow," says she with decision, "I shall settle
this room!"
The professor's breath fails him. He grows pale. To "settle" his room!
"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't understand."
"I do indeed," returns she brightly. "I've often settled papa's den.
What! do you think me only a silly useless creature? You shall see! I'll
settle _you_ too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the most
charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her
words. _Settle him!_
"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans',"
says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be talked
about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He writhes
inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him.
"They said----"
"_What?_" demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble
feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten
his small section of mankind!
"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And
they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but that it
was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _I_ think that too. Not about
your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really think you ought to
have a daughter to look after you."
This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.
"_I'll_ be your daughter," says she.
The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he _done_ that the Fates
should so visit him?
"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather
angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt.
That," thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair enough.
Never mind, _I'll_ brush it for you."
"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but
very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, _at once_! D'ye see? You can't
stay in this house, d'ye _hear_? I can't permit it. What did your father
mean by bringing you up like this!"
"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as if
surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the uselessness of
a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to win. He is bound to
go to the wall. She is looking not only surprised, but unnerved. This
ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight
shock to her.
"Tell me?" persists she.
"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest infant
would have known she oughtn't to come here."
"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All your
scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant. And I
should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she
could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble."
"At this hour?"
"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a guardian
_for_, if it isn't to take care of people?"
The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. With a
deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long it will
be before happy death will overtake him.
But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting for
that grim friend, what is to be done with her? If--Good heavens! if
anyone had seen her come in!
"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly.
"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of course.
I remember your telling me about her."
Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told
this ward _more_ about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she--awful
thought--will she trust him? What is she thinking now?
"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So I saw
she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I ran past
her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where there were
lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on again until I saw the
light under _your_ door, and," brightening, "there you were!"
Here _she_ is now at all events, at half-past twelve at night!
"Wasn't it fortunate I found you?" says she. She is laughing a little,
and looking so content that the professor hasn't the heart to contradict
her--though where the fortune comes in----
"I'm starving," says she, gaily, "will that funny little kettle soon
boil?" The professor has lit a spirit-lamp with a view to giving her
some tea. "I haven't had anything to eat since dinner, and you know she
dines at an ungodly hour. Two o'clock! I didn't know I wanted anything
to eat until I escaped from her, but now that I have got _you_,"
triumphantly, "I feel as hungry as ever I can be."
"There is nothing," says the professor, blankly. His heart seems to stop
beating. The most hospitable and kindly of men, it is terrible to him to
have to say this. Of course Mrs. Mulcahy--who, no doubt, is still in the
hall waiting for an explanation, could give him something. But Mrs.
Mulcahy can be unpleasant at times, and this is safe to be a "time." Yet
without her assistance he can think of no means by which this pretty,
slender, troublesome little ward of his can be fed.
"Nothing!" repeats she faintly. "Oh, but surely in that cupboard over
there, where you put the glass, there is something; even bread and
butter I should like."
She gets up, and makes an impulsive step forward, and in doing so
brushes against a small rickety table, that totters feebly for an
instant and then comes with a crash to the ground, flinging a whole heap
of gruesome dry bones at her very feet.
With a little cry of horror she recoils from them. Perhaps her nerves
are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast and long
drive here, and her reception from her guardian at the end of it--so
different from what she had imagined--have all helped to undo her.
Whatever be the cause, she suddenly covers her face with her hands and
bursts into tears.
"Take them away!" cries she frantically, and then--sobbing heavily
between her broken words--"Oh, I see how it is. You don't want me here
at all. You wish I hadn't come. And I have no one but you--and poor papa
said you would be good to me. But you are _sorry_ he made you my
guardian. You would be glad if I were _dead_! When I come to you in my
trouble you tell me to go away again, and though I tell you I am hungry,
you won't give me even some bread and butter! Oh!" passionately, "if
_you_ came to _me_ starving, I'd give _you_ things, but--you----"
"_Stop!_" cries the professor. He uplifts his hands, and, as though in
the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers
downstairs to those other apartments where Hardinge had elected to sit,
and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may prove, to
its bitter end.
The professor bursts in like a maniac!