"The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as
well for his defence against injury and violence as for his
repose."
"She's upstairs still," cries he in a frenzied tone. "She says she has
come _for ever_. That she will not go away. She doesn't understand.
Great Heaven! What I am to do?"
"She?" says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the
moment--_only_ for the moment.
"That girl! My ward! All women are _demons_!" says the professor
bitterly, with tragic force. He pauses as if exhausted.
"_Your_ demon is a pretty specimen of her kind," says Hardinge, a little
frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed. "Where is she
now?"
"Upstairs!" with a groan. "She says she's _hungry_, and I haven't a
thing in the house! For goodness sake think of something, Hardinge."
"Mrs. Mulcahy!" suggests Hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone.
"Yes--ye-es," says the professor. "You--_you_ wouldn't ask her for
something, would you, Hardinge?"
"Not for a good deal," says Hardinge, promptly. "I say," rising, and
going towards Everett's cupboard, "Everett's a Sybarite, you know, of
the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it with
him afterwards. Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all hearts.
_Here we are!_" holding out at arm's length a pasty. "A 'weal and
ammer!' Take it! The guilt be on my head! Bread--butter--pickled onions!
Oh, _not_ pickled onions, I think. Really, I had no idea even Everett
had fallen so low. Cheese!--about to proceed on a walking tour! The
young lady wouldn't care for that, thanks. Beer! No. _No._
Sherry-Woine!"
"Give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in
great wrath. "And let me tell you, Hardinge, that there are occasions
when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness and
vulgarity!"
He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let us hope,
a pray to remorse. It is true, at least of that young man, that he
covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, as if
overcome by some secret emotion. Grief--no-doubt.
Perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the professor
brings her. She even goes so far as to ask him to share it with
her--which invitation he declines. He is indeed sick at heart--not for
himself--(the professor doesn't often think of himself)--but for her.
And where is she to sleep? To turn her out now would be impossible!
After all, it was a puerile trifling with the Inevitable, to shirk
asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to eat for his self-imposed
guest--because the question of _Bed_ still to come! Mrs. Mulcahy,
terrible as she undoubtedly can be, is yet the only woman in the house,
and it is imperative that Perpetua should be given up to her protection.
Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable fact,
he becomes aware of a resounding knock at his door. Paralyzed, he gazes
in the direction of the sound. It _can't_ be Hardinge, he would never
knock like that! The knock in itself, indeed, is of such force and
volume as to strike terror into the bravest breast. It is--it _must_
be--the Mulcahy!
And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuous
Irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown,
marches into the room.
"May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, with great dignity and more temper,
"what may be the meanin' of all this?"
The professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but Perpetua's
tongue remains normal. She jumps up, and runs to Mrs. Mulcahy with a
beaming face. She has had something to eat, and is once again her own
buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self.
"Oh! it is all right _now_, Mrs. Mulcahy," cries she, whilst the
professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the
militant Mulcahy. "But do you know, he said first he hadn't anything to
give me, and I was starving. No, you mustn't scold him--he didn't mean
anything. I suppose you have heard how unhappy I was with Aunt
Jane?--he's told you, I daresay,"--with a little flinging of her hand
towards the trembling professor--"because I know"--prettily--"he is very
fond of you--he often speaks to me about you. Oh! Aunt Jane is _horrid_!
I _should_ have told you about how it was when I came, but I wanted so
much to see my guardian, and tell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to
be nice to anybody. See?"
There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guilty as if
the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, waits,
shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come.
It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he finds
that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing, and is
talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talk this time,
and the few words of it that he catches go to his very heart.
"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low
distressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't _know_
how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs. Mulcahy, you don't indeed! She--she
said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetua breaks down
again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally bursts out crying.
"I'm tired, I'm sleepy," sobs she miserably.
Need I say what follows? The professor, stung to the quick by those
forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gathered to
the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy.
"Come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "Bad scran to the one
that made yer purty heart sore. Lave her to me now, Misther Curzon,
dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her." (This in an aside to the
astounded professor.) "There now, alanna! Take courage now! Sure 'tis to
the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis daughthers I have meself, me
dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could put you in their pockits. Ye poor
little crather! Oh! Murther! Who could harm the likes of ye? Faix, I
hope that ould divil of an aunt o' yours won't darken these doors, or
she'll git what she won't like from Biddy Mulcahy. There now! There now!
'Tis into yer bed I'll tuck ye meself, for 'tis worn-out ye are--God
help ye!"
She is gone, taking Perpetua with her. The professor rubs his eyes, and
then suddenly an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards Mrs. Mulcahy
takes possession of him. _What_ a woman! He had never thought so much
moral support could be got out of a landlady--but Mrs. Mulcahy has
certainly tided him safely over _one_ of his difficulties. Still, those
that remain are formidable enough to quell any foolish present attempts
at relief of mind. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"
How many to-morrows is she going to remain here? Oh! Impossible! Not an
_hour_ must be wasted. By the morning light something must be put on
foot to save the girl from her own foolhardiness, nay ignorance!
Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the persecuted professor
descends to the room where Hardinge awaits him.
"Anything new?" demands the latter, springing to his feet.
"Yes! Mrs. Mulcahy came up." The professor's face is so gloomy, that
Hardinge may be forgiven for saying to himself, "She has assaulted him!"
"I'm glad it isn't visible," says he, staring at the professor's nose,
and then at his eye. Both are the usual size.
"Eh?" says the professor. "She was visible of course. She was kinder
than I expected."
"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip--or your
nose--or----"
"_What_ is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands the
professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't sit there
grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!"
This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.
"I tell you she was kind--kinder than one would expect," says the
professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.
"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"
"No--Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's your head,
man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter into her
charge in the--er--the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed."
The professor mops his brow.
"Oh, well, _that's_ all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap, and
let's talk it over."
"It is _not_ all right," says the professor. "It is all wrong. Here she
is, and here she apparently means to stay. The poor child doesn't
understand. She thinks I'm older than Methusaleh, and that she can live
here with me. I can't explain it to her--you--don't think _you_ could,
do you, Hardinge?"
"No, I don't, indeed," says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth has
brought her here at all?"
"To _stay_. Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"--with a
groan--"she is going to settle me! To--to _brush my hair_! To--make my
tea. She says I'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. She
doesn't understand! Hardinge," desperately, "what _am_ I to do?"
"Marry her!" suggests Hardinge, who I regret to say is choking with
laughter.
"That is a _jest_!" says the professor haughtily. This unusual tone from
the professor strikes surprise to the soul of Hardinge. He looks at him.
But the professor's new humor is short-lived. He sinks upon a chair in a
tired sort of a way, letting his arms fall over the sides of it. As a
type of utter despair he is a distinguished specimen.
"Why don't you take her home again, back to the old aunt?" says
Hardinge, moved by his misery.
"I can't. She tells me it would be useless, that the house is locked up,
and--and besides, Hardinge, her aunt--after _this_, you know--would
be----"
"Naturally," says Hardinge, after which he falls back upon his cigar.
"Light your pipe," says he, "and we'll think it over." The professor
lights it, and both men draw nearer to each other.
"I'm afraid she won't go back to her aunt any way," says the professor,
as a beginning to the "thinking it over." He pushes his glasses up to
his forehead, and finally discards them altogether, flinging them on the
table near.
"If she saw you now she might understand," says Hardinge--for, indeed,
the professor without his glasses loses thirty per cent. of old Time.
"She wouldn't," says the professor. "And never mind that. Come back to
the question. I say she will never go back to her aunt."
He looks anxiously at Hardinge. One can see that he would part with a
good deal of honest coin of the realm, if his companion would only _not_
agree with him.
"It looks like it," said Hardinge, who is rather enjoying himself. "By
Jove! what a thing to happen to _you_, Curzon, of all men in the world.
What are you going to do, eh?"
"It isn't so much that," says the professor faintly. "It is what is
_she_ going to do?"
"_Next!_" supplements Hardinge. "Quite so! It would be a clever fellow
who would answer that, straight off. I say, Curzon, what a pretty girl
she is, though. Pretty isn't the word. Lovely, I----"
The professor gets up suddenly.
"Not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that has
now something of haste in it. "It--I--you know what I mean, Hardinge. To
discuss her--herself, I mean--and here----"
"Yes. You are right," says Hardinge slowly, with, however, an
irrepressible stare at the professor. It is a prolonged stare. He is
very fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him beyond
the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes him as
strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man should be the
one to teach him how to behave himself. Who _is_ Curzon? Given a better
tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a reasonable-looking fellow
enough, and not so old either--forty, perhaps--perhaps less. "Have you
no relation to whom you could send her?" he says at length, that sudden
curiosity as to who Curzon may be prompting the question. "Some old
lady? An aunt, for example?"
"She doesn't seem to like aunts" says the professor, with deep
dejection.
"Small blame to her," says, Hardinge, smoking vigorously. "_I've_ an
aunt--but 'that's another story!' Well--haven't you a cousin then?--or
something?"
"I have a sister," says the professor slowly.
"Married?"
"A widow."
("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley," says
Hardinge to himself. "Poor little girl--she won't fancy that either!")
"Why not send her to your sister then?" says he aloud.
"I'm not sure that she would like to have her," says the professor, with
hesitation. "I confess I have been thinking it over for some days,
but----"
"But perhaps the fact of your ward's being an heiress----" begins
Hardinge--throwing out a suggestion as it were--but is checked by
something in the professor's face.
"My sister is the Countess of Baring," says he gently.
Hardinge's first thought is that the professor has gone out of his mind,
and his second that he himself has accomplished that deed. He leans
across the table. Surprise has deprived him of his usual good manners.
"Lady Baring!--_your_ sister!" says he.