"Now, by a two-headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time."
Hardinge is hardly gone before another--a far heavier--step sounds in
the passage outside the professor's door. It is followed by a knock,
almost insolent in its loudness and sharpness.
"What a hole you do live in," says Sir Hastings, stepping into the room,
and picking his way through the books and furniture as if afraid of
being tainted by them. "Bless me! what strange beings you scientists
are. Rags and bones your surroundings, instead of good flesh and blood.
Well, Thaddeus--hardly expected to see _me_ here, eh?"
"You want me?" says the professor. "Don't sit down there--those notes
are loose; sit here."
"Faith, you've guessed it, my dear fellow, I _do_ want you, and
most confoundedly badly this time. Your ward, now, Miss Wynter!
Deuced pretty little girl, isn't she, and good form too? Wonderfully
bred--considering."
"I don't suppose you have come here to talk about Miss Wynter's good
manners."
"By Jove! I have though. You see, Thaddeus, I've about come to
the length of my tether, and--er--I'm thinking of turning over
a new leaf--reforming, you know--settling down--going in for
dulness--domesticity, and all the other deuced lot of it."
"It is an excellent resolution, that might have been arrived at years
ago with greater merit," says the professor.
"A preacher and a scientist in one! Dear sir, you go beyond the
possible," says Sir Hastings, with a shrug. "But to business. See here,
Thaddeus. I have told you a little of my plans, now hear the rest. I
intend to marry--an heiress, _bien entendu_--and it seems to me that
your ward, Miss Wynter, will suit me well enough."
"And Miss Wynter, will you suit _her_ well enough?"
"A deuced sight too well, I should say. Why, the girl is of no family to
signify, whereas the Curzons----It will be a better match for her than
in her wildest dreams she could have hoped for."
"Perhaps, in her wildest dreams, she hoped for a good man, and one who
could honestly love her."
"Pouf! You are hardly up to date, my dear fellow. Girls, now-a-days, are
wise enough to know they can't have everything, and she will get a good
deal. Title, position----I say, Thaddeus, what I want of you is
to--er--to help me in this matter--to--crack me up a bit, eh?--to--_you_
know."
The professor is silent, more through disgust than want of anything to
say. Staring at the man before him, he knows he is loathsome to
him--loathsome, and his own brother! This man, who with some of the best
blood of England in his veins, is so far, far below the standard that
marks the gentleman. Surely vice is degrading in more ways than one. To
the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands
out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every word he says is tinged with
coarseness; and yet, what a pretty boy he used to be, with his soft,
sunny hair and laughing eyes----
"You will help me, eh?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry
chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.
"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.
"_No?_ Why?"
The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.
"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening. "You had
_better_, you know, if you want the old name kept above water much
longer."
"You mean----?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.
"Nothing but what is honorable. I tell you I mean to turn over a new
leaf. 'Pon my soul, I mean _that_. I'm sick of all this old racket, it's
killing me. And my title is as good a one as she can find anywhere, and
if I'm dipped--rather--her money would pull me straight again, and----"
He pauses, struck by something in the professor's face.
"You mean----?" says the latter again, even more slowly. His eyes are
beginning to light.
"Exactly what I have said," sullenly. "You have heard me."
"Yes, I _have_ heard you," cries the professor, flinging aside all
restraints and giving way to sudden violent passion--the more violent,
coming from one so usually calm and indifferent. "You have come here
to-day to try and get possession, not only of the fortune of a young and
innocent girl, but of her body and _soul_ as well! And it is me, _me_
whom you ask to be a party to this shameful transaction. Her dead father
left her to my care, and I am to sell her to you, that her money may
redeem our name from the slough into which _you_ have flung it? Is
innocence to be sacrificed that vice may ride abroad again? Look here,"
says the professor, his face deadly white, "you have come to the wrong
man. I shall warn Miss Wynter against marriage with _you_, as long as
there is breath left in my body."
Sir Hastings has risen too; _his_ face is dark red; the crimson flood
has reached his forehead and dyed it almost black. Now, at this terrible
moment, the likeness between the two brothers, so different in spirit,
can be seen; the flashing-eyes, the scornful lips, the deadly hatred. It
is a shocking likeness, yet not to be denied.
"What do _you_ mean, damn you?" says Sir Hastings; he sways a little, as
if his passion is overpowering him, and clutches feebly at the edge of
the table.
"Exactly what _I_ have said," retorts the professor, fiercely.
"You refuse then to go with me in this matter?"
"_Finally._ Even if I would, I could not. I--have other views for her."
"Indeed! Perhaps those other views include yourself. Are you thinking of
reserving the prize for your own special benefit? A penniless
guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; full of
possibilities."
"Take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two.
"Tut! Do you think I can't see through your game?" says Sir Hastings, in
his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "You hope to keep me
unmarried. You tell yourself, I can't live much longer, at the pace
I'm going. I know the old jargon--I have it by heart--given a year
at the most the title and the heiress will both be yours! I can read
you--I--" He breaks off to laugh sardonically, and the cough catching
him, shakes him horribly. "But, no, by heaven!" cries he. "I'll destroy
your hopes yet. I'll disappoint you. I'll marry. I'm a young man
yet--yet--with life--_long_ life before me--life----"
A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only saving
himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right.
The professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. With his foot
he drags a chair nearer, into which Sir Hastings falls with a heavy
groan. It is only a momentary attack, however; in a little while the
leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his face looks more
natural.
"Brandy," gasps he faintly. The professor holds it to his lips, and
after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up and
look round him.
"Thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a
malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "But I'll beat
you yet! There!--Call my fellow--he's below. Can't get about without a
damned attendant in the morning, now. But I'll cure all that. I'll see
you dead before I go to my own grave. I----"
"Take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man, who
is now on the threshold. The maunderings of Sir Hastings--still hardly
recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear, rendering him
almost faint.