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Etc. k^SiTABL,I8H£D I85S> LORGE. & CO., HATTERS & FURRIERS. 21 ST. LAWRENCE MAIN ST. 21 ' Kst€ihU8he€l 18G(i, U. J. I\. SURVtYE.R, 6 sa^ LAWRENCK ST. (near Craig Stroet.) HOUSE FURNISHING HARDWARE, Brass, Vienna and Russian Coffee Machines. QBPET SWmS, CDBTilN WMIX 3EST K^SUlSy eUTliBIKY, ^E/EIsrOH 3N^OXJIj3DS, ace- BUILDERS' HARDWARE, TOOLS, ETC A LITTLE REBEL 7 A >i O V B I« BY THE DUCHESS Author of '' Her Last Throw;' ''April's Lady;' " Faith and Unfaith;' etc., etc. Montreal : JOHN LOVELL & SON, 23 St. Nicholas Str^bt. Entered according to Act of Parliament in the year 1891. by John Lovell dr* Son, in the office of the Minister of Agriculture and Statistics at Ottawa. LOVELUS^ CANADIAN COPYRIGHT SERIES OF CHOIOB FICTION". The Series now numbers over 60 hooks, and contains the latest novels of such well-known authors as Ouida, The Duchess, Qeo, Manville Fenn» Rosa Nouchette Carey, Florence Marryat, A. Ck>iian Doyle, Gteorg Ebers, James Payn, Miss Braddon, Frank Barrett, Mrs. Alexander* Edna Lyall, Katherine S. Macquoid, G. M. Robins, G. A. Henty, Adeline Sergeant, Mona Caird, John Strange Winter, Joseph Hatton, Dora Russell, Julian Sturgis, Kate Tannatt Woods, Florence Warden, Annie Thomas, W. £. Norris, Helen Mathers, Jessie Fothergili, Hall Caine, Oswald CrawfUrd, Rhoda Broughton, F. C. Phillips, Robert Buchanan, Charles Gibbon, L. T. Meade, John Berwick Harwood, from whose pens books have been issued during the past year, and others now in preparation, make the Series the best in the Dominion. The books are printed on good paper with new type. All the books are published by arrangement with the authors, to whom a royalty is paid, and are issued simultaneously with their publication in England. For sale at all Bookstores. JOHN LOVELL & SON, PUBLISHERS, MONTREAL, pOVERNTOiNi S Sl^ECIALTIES ^^ i *_* • • • • • % m « . « » • • •» •— 22- ^l HAVP' you used Covernton's Celebrated FRAGRANT CARBOLIC TOOTH WASH, For Cleansing and Preserving the Teeth, Hardening the Gums, etc. Highly recommended by the leading Dentisu Ot'il.e City. Price, 25c., 50c. and $1.00 a botlk. CCVERNTON'S SYRUP OF WILD CHERRY, For Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Bronchitis, etc. Price 25c. CCVERNTON'S AROMATIC BLACKBERRY CARMINATIVE, For Diarrhoea, Cholera Morbus, Dysentery, etc. Price 25c. CCVERNTON'S NIPPLE OIL, For Cracked or Sore Nipples. Price 250. 9t ! B USE CCVERNTON'S ALPINE CREAM for Chapped Hands, Sore Lips, Sunburn, Tan, Freckle' , etc. A most delightful preparation for the Toilet. Price ?' • '^•■. C. J. COYERNTON & CO., CCRNIR OF BLEURY AND DORCHESTER STREETS, Branch, 469 St Lawrence Street, MONTREAL. ■»» • •••s- 1 -',n:- '0' •.!' ■»•• 'X U*. ff"'- • •^••" • • ■• I* .. f- 1 % A LITTLE REBEL. CHAPTER I. ** Perplex'd m the extreme." " The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid ami beautiful." ' • The professor, sitting before his untasted breakfast, is looking the very picture of dismay. Two letters lie before him j one is in his hand, the other is on the table-cloth, Botli are open ; but of one, the opening lines — that tell of the death of liis old friend— are all he has read ; whereas he has read the other from start to finish, already three times. It is from the old friend himself, written a week before his death, and very urgent and very pleading. The professor has piastered its contents with ever-increasing consternation. ' Indeed so great a revolution has it created in his mind, that his face — (the index of that excellent part of him) — has, for the moment, undergone a complete change. Any ordinary acquaintance now entering the professor's rooms (ancj those acquaintances might be whittled down to quite 4 A LITTLE KI.BEl., a little few), would hardly have known him. For the abstraction that, as a rule, characterizes his features — the way he has of looking at you, as if he doesn't see you, that harasses the simple, and enrages the others — is all gone ! Not a trace of it remains, ll has given place to terror, open and unrestrained. ** A girl ! " murmurs he in a feeble tone, falling back in his chair. And then again^ in a louder tone of dismay — " A girl f" He pauses again, and now again gives way to the fear thai is destroying him — " A i^roivn girl ! " After this, he seems loo overcome to continue his retlec- tions, so goes back to the fatal letter. Every now and then a groan escapes him, mingled with mournful remarks, and extracts from the sheet in his hand — *' Poor old Wynter ! Gone at last ! " staring at the shak- ing signature at the end of the letier that speaks so plainly of the coming icy clutch that should i)revent the poor hand from forming ever again even such sadly erratic characters as these. " At least," glancing at the half-read letter on the cloth — " this tells me so. His solicitor's, I suppose. Though what Wynter could want with a solicitor Poor old fellow ! He was often very good to me in the old days. I don't believe I should have done even as much as I have done, without him. ... It must be fully ten years since he threw up his work here and went to Australia ! . . . ten years. The girl must have been born before he went," — glances at letter — " ' My child, my beloved Perpe- tua, the one thing on earth I love, will be left entirely alone. Her mother died nine years ago. She is only seventeen, and the world lies before her, and never a soul in it to care iM /t l.lTTl.i: RLBEL, % how it goes with her. I entrust her to you — (a groan). To you I give her. Knowing that if you are living, clear fel- low, you will not desert me in my great need, but will do what you Ciin for my little one.'" •' lUit what is that?" demands the professor, distract- edly, lie pushes his spectacles up to the lop of his head, and then drags them d(jwn again, and casts them wildly into the sugar-bowl. " What on earth am I to do with a girl of seventeen ? If it had been a boy ! even tkat would have been bad enough — but a girl ! And, of course — I know Wynter — he has died without a penny. He was bound to do that, as he always lived without one. Poor old Wynter 1 " — as if a little ashamed of himself. " 1 don't .see how 1 can afTord to put her out to nurse." Me pulls himself up with a start. " To nurse ! a girl of seventeen ! Slie'Jl want to be going out to balls and things — at her age." As if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks his glasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter. " You will find her the dearest girl. Most loving, and tender-hearted ; and full of life and spirits." " Good heavens ! " says the professor. He puts down the letter again, and begins to pace the room. " * Life and spirits.' A sort of young kangaroo, no doubt. What will the landlady say ? I shall leave these rooms " — with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous — " and take a small house — somewhere — and . . . But — er It won't be re- spectable, I think. I — I've heard things said about — er — A LITTLE REBEL. \ ! things like that. It's no good in looking an old fogey, if you aren't one ; it's no earthly use " — standing before a glass and ruefully examining his countenance — " in looking fifty if you are only thicty-four. It will be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. '' They'll cut her, and they'll cut me, and — what the deuce did Wynter mean by leaving me his daughter? A real live girl of seventeen ! It'll be the death of me," says the professor, mopping his brow. *' What " wrathfully " that determined spendthrift meant, by flinging his family on my shoulders, I Oh ! soor old Wynter ! " Here he grows remorseful again. Abuse a man dead and gone, and one, too, who had been good to him in many ways when he, the professor, was younger than he is now, and had just quarrelled with a father who was always only too prone to quarrel with anyone who gave him the chance seems but a poor thing. The professor's quarrel with his father had been caused by the young man's refusal to ac- cept a Government appointment — obtained with some dif- ficulty — for the very insufficient and, as it seemed to his father, iniquitous reason, that he had made up his mind to devote his life to science. Wynter, too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not made tlieir mark on him. He had been young Curzon's coach at one time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea of which no man yet has drank enough — for all begin, and leave it, athirst. Poor Wynter I The professor, turning in his stride up ^nd down tlie narrow, uncomforuible room, one of tlie A LITTLE REBEL, many that lie off the Strand, finds his eyes resting on that other letter — carelessly opened, barely begun. From VVynter's solicitor ! It seems ridiculous that Wyn- ter should have had a solicitor. With a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and begins to read it. At the end of the second page, he starts, re-reads a sentence Oi two, and suddenly liis face becomes illuminated. He throws up Iiis head. He cackles a bit. He looks as if he wants to say something very badly — '• Hurrah," probably — only he has forgotten how to do it, and finally goes back to the letter again, and this time — the third time — finishes it. Yes. It is all right ! Why on earth hadn't he read it first ? So the girl is to be sent to live with her aunt after all — an old lady — maiden lady. Evidently living some- where in Bloomsbury. Miss Jane IMajendic. Mother's sister evidently. Wynter's sisters would never have been old maids if they had resembled him, which probably they did — if he had any. What a handsome fellow he was ! and such a good-natured fellow too. The professor colors here in his queer sensitive way, and pushes his spectacles up and down his nose, in another nervous fashion of his. After all, it was only this minute he had been accusing old Wynter of anything but good nature. Well ! He had wronged him there. He glances at the letter again. He has only been appointed her guardian, it seems. Guardian of her fortune, rather than of her. The old aunt will have the charge of her body, the — er — pleasure of her society — he, of the estate only. t^ancy Wynter, of all men, dying rich —actually rich^ 8 A LITTLE REBEL. I I The professor pulls his beard, and involuntarily glances round the somewhat meagre apartment, that not all his learning, not all his success in the scientific world — and it has been not unnote worthy, so far — has enabled him to improve upon. It has helped him to live, no doubt, and distinctly outside the line of want^ a thing to be grateful for, as his family having in a measure abandoned him, he, on his part, had abandoned his family in a measure also (and with reservations), and it would have been im- possible to him, of all men, to confess himself beaten, and return to them for assistance of any kind. He could never have enacted the part of the prodigal son. He knew this in earlier days, when husks were for the most part all he had to sustain him. But the mind requires not even the material husk, it lives on better food than that, and in his case mind had triumphed over body, and borne it trium- phantly to a safe, if not as yet to a victorious, goal. Yet Wynter, the spendthrift, the erstwhile master of him who now could be his master, has died, leaving behind him a fortune. What was the sum .? He glances back to the sheet in his hand and verifies his thought. Yes — eighty thousand pounds ! A good fortune even in these luxurious days. He has died worth X8o,ooo, of which his daughter is sole heiress ! Before the professor's eyes rises a vision of old Wynter. They used to call him ** old," those boys who attended his classes, though he was as light-hearted as the best of them, and as handsome as a dissipated Apollo. They had all loved him, if they had not revered him, and, indeed, he had been generally regarded as a sort of living and lasting joke amongst them. A LITTLE REPEL. $ Gurzon, holding the letter in his hand, and bringing back to his memory the handsome face and devil-may-care expression of his tutor, remembers how the joke had widened, and reached its height when, at forty years of age, old Wynter had flung up his classes, leaving them all plants la as it were, and declared his intention of starting life anew and making a pile for himself in some new world. Well ! it had not been such a joke after all, if they had only known. Wynter //^^ made that mythical ** pile," and had left his daughter an heiress ! Not only an heiress, but a gift to Miss Jane Majendie, of somewhere in Bloomsbury. The professor's disturbed face grows calm again. It even occurs to him that he has not eaten his breakfast. He so often remembers this, that it does not trouble him. To pore over his books (that are overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until iiis eggs are India- rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a fresh expe- rience. But though this morning both eggs and rasher have attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his sorry repast with a glad heart. Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy ! And he has so much of joy ! Not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that awful incubus — and ever-present ward — but he can be sure that the absent ward is so well- off" with regard to this word's goods, that he need never give her so much as a passing thought — dragged, torn as that thought would be from his beloved studies. The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. He has has only a perfunctory duty — to see that the fortune is not to A LITTLE RELiEL. I. squandered. But he is safe there. Maiden ladies never squander ! And the girl, being only seventeen, can't pos- sibly squander it herself for some time. Perhaps he ought to call on her, however. Yes, of course, he must call. It is the usual thing to call on one's ward. It will be a terrible business no doubt. All girls belong to the genus nuisance. And this girl w^l be at the head of her class no doubt. ** Lively, spirited," so far went the parent. A regular hoyden may be read between those kind parental lines. The poor professor feels hot again with nervous agita- tion as lie imagines an interview between him and the wild, laughing, noisy, perhaps horsey (they all ride in Australia) young woman to whom he is bound to make his bow. How soon must this unpleasant interview take place? Once more he looks back to the solicitor's letter. Ah ! On Jan. 3rd her father, poor old Wynter, had died, and on the 26th of May, she is to be " on view " at Bloomsbury ! and it is now the 2nd of February. A respite ! Perhaps, who knows ? She may never arrive at Bloomsbury at all ! There are young men in Australia, a hoyden, as far as the professor has read (and that is saying a good deal), would just suit the man in the bush. A LITTLE REBEL. II CHAPTER II. " 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 uj) 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 I 13 A LITTLE REBEL. 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 thres- hold, 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 un- known 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 pro- fesbor of the unwelcome fact. The ^Minc" is signed by ^ M A LITTLE REPEL. t$ " Jane^ajendie," 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 help- lessly 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 siinj)]y. *'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. AVith this latter (having put the coat on him) she proceeds to belabor the professor with great spirit, and «4 A UTILE REBEL. presently sends him forth shining — if not /eternally, at all events ^jcternally. In truth the professor's mood is not a happy one. Sit- ting in the hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he dwells with terror on the girl — the unde- sired 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 — viuch noise. Yes, she is sure to be a bi^ 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 I A bouncing creature wjio 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 ]irol)ably 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 ! A 1/7 77. E RE BEL. n nally, at all one. Sit- iftly to his the unde- le has quite 1 girl ! One ;d; strength th branching •f. A young and a settled "Strailia" is creature wlio nknown, and )\vcr and the probably in ler frock will and requires lier without im all the air lows him into ane Majendie Her niece, len the door 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 i radiant face, and such a childish figure. Her eyes are fixed on the pro- fessor, 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." f ' « v^ Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if k I 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 sud- denly, 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 n I n ' 11 ft A LITTLE REBEL, 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 sifrhs softly. " Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane ? " asks she ; " because Aunt Jane is out — /*/// 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 t/iis 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 se'^ ns to him, every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden shyness. After many days the pro- fessor grows accustomed to these sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these rapid, incon- sequent, 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 emphati- cally. It is plain that she is now on her very ^esf be- havior. 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, A LITTLE REBEL. 17 " asks she ; "—this last tly. He is and dropped imaginings ? her clothes 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 Wynler, picking up a mi!king-stool, ad- vances 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, re. ostess gently, !rs. ;n stops short. , yet emphati- very best be- :ouraging way. 4 iiasm. He has ted out to him, It A LITTLE REBEL, CHAPTER III. ** And if you dreamed how a friend's smile And nearness soothe a heart that's sore. You might be moved to stay awhile Before my door. " ** About? " begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases. ** Everything," says she, with a little nod. " It is im- possible to talk to Aunt Jane. She doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly. But you are different. I can see that. Now tell me," — she leans even more forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows wrinkled as if with extreme and troublous thought — ** What are the duties of a guardian ? " " Eh ? " says the professor. He moves his glasses up to his forehead and then pulls them down again. Did ever anxious student ask him question so difficult of an- swer as this one — that this small maiden has propounded ? "You can think it over," says she most graciously. " There is no hurry, and I am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian every day. Do you think you could make it out whilst I count forty ? " " I think I could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at all," says the professor, who is growing warm. " The duties of a guardian — are — er — to — er — to see that one's ward is comfortable and happy." 'i A LITTLE REBEL. mmers, and " It is im- ilk, she only ferent. 1 can forward and (Ws wrinkled hal are the Is glasses up again. Did ifficult of an- >ropounded ? graciously. lat one isn't could make • I if you didn't )wing warm. -to see that " Then there is a great deal of duty lor you tu do," says she solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand. *• I know — Tm sure of it," says the professor with a sigli that might be called a groan. ** Hut your aunt, Miss Majendie — your mother's sister — can " " 1 don't believe she's niy mother's sister," says Miss Wynter calmly. " I have seen my mother's pictu»'e. Il is lovely I Aunt Jane was a changeling — I'm sure of it. But never mind hiT. Vou were going to say ?" " That !Miss Majendie, wlio is virtually your guardian — can explain il all to you much better than \ can." " Aunt Jane is not my guardian ! " The mild look of enquiry changes to one of light anger. The white brow contracts. *' And certainly she could never make one happy and comfortable. Well — what else ? " " She will look after " ** I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what you can do " " Sec that your fortune is not " "I don't care about my fortune either." with a little gesture. " But I do care about my happiness. Will you see to that ? " '' Of course/' says the professor gravely. ''Then you will take mc awa> from Aunt Jane ! " The small vivacious face is now all aglow. " I am nol happy with Aunt Jane. I" — clasping her hands, and letting a (juick, vindictive fire light her eyes—" T hate Aunt Jane. She says things about poor papa that Oh I how I hate her ! " ': M fo A LITTLE REBEL, \'\ " But^you shouldn't — you really should not. I feel certain you ought not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment. ** Ought I not ? " with a quick little laugh that is all an- ger and no mirth. " I do though, for all that ! I " — paus- ing, and regarding him with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her — ** am not going to stay here much longer ! " ■''WhatV says the professor aghast. "But my dear. 1 Miss Wynter, I'm afraid you must." '' Why ? What is she to me ? " '' Your aunt." *' That's nothing — nothing at all — even a guardian is better than that. And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, " why can't you take me away ? " '* Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager — there is something in them now that might well be termed coax- ing. " Do,^' says she. " Oh ! Impossible ! " says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He almost shakes off the little cling- ing fingers in his astonishment and agitation. Has she no common-sense- -no knowledge of the things that be ? She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely. " Impossible to leave Aunt Jane ? " questions she. It is evident she has not altogether tmderstood, and yet is feeling puzzled. *' Well," defiantly^. " wc aliall see 1 " I I A LITTLE REBEL. 21 ruardian is an. Why," le fingers in ly can't you to him, and ager — there ermed coax- The color J little ciing- Has she no lat be ? garding him ons she. It i, and yet is 1 see I " " IVhy don't you like your Aunt Jane ? " asks the pro- fessor distractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago. " Because," lucidly, " she is Aunt Jane. If she were your Aunt Jane you would know." " But my dear " " I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, *' you wouldn't call me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say something horrid to me. Papa " she pauses suddenly, and tears rush to her dark eyes. "Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hur- riedly, the tears raising terror in his soul. " You knew him — speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously. '• I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me, when — when I was younger. I was very fond of him." " He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with his glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been older than the gay, handsome, debonnaire father, who had been so dear to her. " What are you going to tell me about him ? " asks the professor gently. ** Only what he used to call me — Doatie ! I suppose," wistfully, " you couldn't call me that ? " " I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper. " I'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrow- ful curve. ** But don't call mc Miss Wynter, at gU events, III ;U !j I ^! : t A LITTLE REBEL, ill or * my dear.' I do so want someone to call me by my Christian name/' says the poor child sadly. " Perpetua — is it not ? " says the professor, ever so kindly. " No — ' Pet,* " corrects she. " It's shorter, you know, and far easier to say." *' Oh ! " says the professor. To him it seems very diffi- cult to say. Is it possible she is going to ask him to call her by that familiar — almost affectionate — name ? The girl must be mad. *' Yes — much easier," says Perpetua ; " you will find that out, after a bit, when you have got used to calling me by ii. Are you going now, Mr. Curzon ? Going so soon 1 " '* 1 have classes," says the professor. " Students ? " says she. " You teach them ? I wish I was a student. I shouldn't have been given over to Aunt Jane then, or," with a rather wilful laugh, "if I had been I sliould have led her, oh ! " rapturously, " such a life ! " It suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of doing that now, though she is not of the sex male. " Good-bye," says he, holding out his hand. " You will come soon again ? " demands she, laying her own in it. " Next week — perhaps." "Not till then ? I shall be dead then," says she, with a rather mirthless laugh this time. " Do you know that you and Aunt Jane are the only two people in all London whom I know ? " " That is terrible," says he, quite sincerely, "Yes. Isn't it?" A LITTLE REBEL. 33 "But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances. They — surely they will call ; they will see you — they " "Will take an overwhelming fancy tome? just as you have done," says she, with a quick, rather curious light in her eyes, and a tilting of her pretty chin. "There! ^(7," says she, " I have some work to do ; and you have your classes. It would never do for you to missM^///. And as for next week ! — make it next month ! I wouldn't for the world be a trouble to you in any way." " I shall come next week," says the professor, troubled in somewise by the meaning in her eyes. What is it ? Simple loneliness, or misery downright ? How young she looks — what a child I That tragic air does not belong to her of right. She should be all laughter, and lightness, and mirth " As you will," says she ; her tone has grown almost haughty ; there is a sense of remorse in his breast as he goes down the stairs. Has he been kind to old Wynter's child .»* Has he been true to his trust.? There had been ^an expression that might almost be termed despair in the roung face as he left her. Her face, with that expression )n it, haunts him all down the road. Yes. He will call next week. What day is this } Friday, ind Friday next he is bound to deliver a lecture some- rhere — he is not sure where, but certainly somewhere. ^ell, Saturday then he might call. But that Why not call Thursday — or even Wednesday ? Wednesday let it be. He needn't call every week, but IfC had said something about calling next week, and — she II I'! M li A L/77LE REBEL, wouldn't care, of course — but one should keep their word. What a strange little face she has — ^and strange manners, and — not able to get on evidently with her present sur- roundings. What an old devil that aunt must be." A UniE REBEL, n p CHAPTER IV. " Dear, if you knew what tears they shed, Who live apart from home and friend. To pass my house, by pity led, Your steps would tend." He makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly. But requires no spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's in- vitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hun- gry man to count on them. The professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward regularly every week, has learned to know and (I regret to say) to loathe that estimable spinster christened Jane Majendie. After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that ^^ this one'^ shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has gone again. Indeed, to-day being Wed- nesday in the heart of June, he may be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely house that holds Miss Jane Majendie. As he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds Miss Majendie and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain, that there has just been a row on, somewhere. Perpetua is silting on a distant lounge, her small viva- cious face one thunder-cloud. Miss Majendie, sitting on !| ' i m 26 A UTILE f:ebei.. the hardest chair this hideous room contains, is smiling. A terrible sign. The professor pales before it. " I am glad to see you, Mr. Curzon," says Miss Ma- jendie, rising and extending a bony hand. " As Perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have some influence over her. I say * perhaps ' advisedly, as I scarcely dare to hope anyone could influence a mind so distorted as hers." ** What is it ? " asks the professor nervously — of Perpe- tua, not of Miss Majendie. " I'm dull," says Perpetua sullenly. The professor glances keenly at .the girl's downcast face, and then at Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question. " You hear her," says Miss Majendie coldly — she draws her shawl round her meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils that may be heard. ^' Perhaps you may be able to discover her meaning." " What is it ? " asks the professor, turning to the girl, his tone anxious, uncertain. Young women with '* wrongs" are unknown to him, as arc all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. And this particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the present moment. " 1 have told you ! I am tired of this life. I am dull —stupid. I want to go out." Her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white — her lips trembling. " Take me out," says she suddenly. " Perpetua ! " exclaims Miss Majendie. " How un- maidenly ! How immodest ! " Perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes. " Why ? " says she. A LITTT.E REBEL, ?7 ' How un- ■m *' I really think," interrupts the professor hurriedly, who sees breakers ahead, " if I were to take Perpetua for a walk — a drive — to — er — to some place or other — it might destroy this ennui of which she complains. If you will allow her to come out with me for an hour or so, I " *' If you are waiting for my sanction, Mr. Curzon, to that extraordinary proposal, you will wait some time," says Miss Majendie slowly, frigidly. She draws the shawl still closer, and sniffs again, «' But " '■ There is no ' But,' sir. The subject doesn't admit of argument. In my young days, and I should think " — scrutinizing him exhaustively through her glasses — " in yours, it was not customary for a yowwggejit lew Oman to go out walking, alone, with ' a man ' ! /" If she had said with a famished tiger, she couldn't have thrown more horror into her tone. The professor had shrunk a little from that classing of her age with his, but has now found matter for hope in it. " Still — my age — as you suggest — so far exceeds Per- petua's — 1 am indeed so much older than she is, that I might be allowed to escort her wiicrever it might please her to go." '•■ The real age of a man nowadays, sir, is a thing impos- sible to know.'' says Miss Majendie. '■'■ You wear glasses — a capital disguise ! 1 mean nothing offensive — so far — sir, but it behoves me to be careful, and behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks ? • Nay ! No offence ! An ifmocent man would y>^/ no offence ! " " Really, Miss Majendie ! " begins the poor professor, who is as red as though he were the guiltiest soul alive. N : I ■ I aS A LITTLE REBEL. " Let mc proceed, sir. We were talking of the ages of men." " Certainly ! It was you who suggested the idea, that, being so much older than my niece, Miss Wynter, you could therefore escort her here and there — in fact every- where — in fact " — with awful meaning — *' any where ! " " I assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his feet — Perpetua puts out a white hand. " Ah ! let her talk," says she. •* Then you will under- stand." " But men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion ! " continues Miss Majendie, who has mounted her hobby, and will ride it to the death. " Who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age? We look at their faces, and say he must be so and so, and he a few years younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing. Some look old, because they are old, some look old — through vice /" The professor makes an impatient gesture. But Miss Majendie is equal to most things. " * Who excuses himself accuses himself,' " quotes she with terrible readiness. " Why that gesture, Mr. Curzon ? I made no mention of your name. And, indeed, I trust your age would place you outside of any such suspicion, still, I am bound to be careful where my niece's interests are concerned. You, as her guardian, if a faithful guar- dian " (with open doubt, as to this, expressed in eye and pointed finger), ** should be the first to applaud my caution." ' ** You take an extreme view," begins the professor, a "% m i PI A LITTLE REBEL. 1 little feebly, perhaps. That eye and that pointed finger have cowed him. " One's views have to be extreme in these days if one would continue in the paths of virtue," said Miss Majendie. " Your views," with a piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently not extreme. One word for all, Mr. Cur- zon, and this argument is at an end. I shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walk with you or any other man whilst under my protection." " I daresay you are right — no doubt^no doubt," mum- bles the professor, incoherently, now thoroughly frightened and demoralized. Good heavens ! What an awful old woman ! And to think that this poor child is under her care. He happens at this moment to look at the poor child, and the scoxn for him that gleams in her large eyes perfects his rout. To say that she was right ! " If Perpetua wishes to go for a walk," says Miss Majendie, breaking through a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, " I am here to accompany her." " I don't want to go for a walk — with you," says Per- petua, rudely it must be confessed, though her tone is low and studiously reserved. " I don't want to go for a walk at ally She pauses, and her voice chokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passion of vehe- mence. " I want to go somewhere, to see something," she cries, gazing imploringly at Curzon. "To see something ! " says her aunt, "why it was only last Sunday I took you to Westminster Abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice in all the world." "Most interesting place," says the professor, sotto voce, ji il A LIITI.E REBEI . ; with a wild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for Pcrpetua's sake. If it 7vas for PeriDetua's sake, she proves herself singu- larly ungrateful. She turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with indignation. " You support her," cries she. " You ! Well, I shall tell you ! I " — defiantly — " I don't want to go to churches at all. 1 want to go to theatres ! There ! " There is an awful silence. Miss Majendie's face is a picture ! If the girl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to the theatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. She takes a step forward, closer to J*er- petua. " Go to your room ! And ^x^vj—pray for a purer mind ! " 6ays she. " This is hereditary, all this ! Only prayer can cast it out. And remember, this is the last word upon this subject. As long as you are under my roof you shall never go to a si.iful place of amusement. I forbid you ever to speak of theatres again." " I .shall not be forbidden ! " says Perpetua. She con- fronts her aunt with flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. " I do want to go to the theatre, and to balls, and dances, and everythir<^. I " — passionately, and with a most cruel, de- spairing longing in her young voice, " want to dance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself — to be the gayest thing in all the world ! " She stops as if exhausted, surprised perhaps at her own daring, and there is silence for a moment, a iittle moment, and then Miss Majendie looks at her. \ The gayest thing in all the world : ' and your father i( ( A UTTI.L RF.nEI.. s« I only four months dead!'' says she, slowiy, remorselessly. All in a moment, as it were, the little crimson angry face grows white— white as death itself. The professor, shocked beyond words, stands staring, and marking the sad changes in it. Perpetua is trembiing from liead to foot. A frightened look has come into her beautiful eyes — her breath comes quickly. She is as a ihinu; at bay— hopeless, horrified. Her lips part as if she would say something. But no words come. She casts one anguished glance at the professor, and rushes from the room. It was but a momentary glimpse into a heart, but it was terrible. The professor turns upon Miss Majendie in great wrath. " That was cruel — uncalled for ! " says he, a strange feeling in his heart that he has not time to stop and analyze then. '• How could you hurt her so? Poor child I Poor girl ! She loved him ! " •' Then let her show respect to his memory," says Miss Majendie vindictively. She is unmoved — undamited. " She was not wanting in respect." His tone is hurried. This woman with the remorseless eye is too much for the gentle professor. " All she does want is change, amuse- ment. She is young. Youth must enjoy." " In moderation — and in proper ways," says Miss Ma- jendie stonily. " In moderation," she repeats mechani- cally, alm.ost unconsciously. And then suddenly her wrath gets the better of her, and she breaks out into a violent range. That one should dare to question her actions ! " Who are you ? " demands she fiercely, " that you should presume to dictate right and wrong to ;«^." i M. 3* A LITTLE RE Li EL.. " I am Miss Wynter's guardian," says the professor, who begins to see visions — and all the lower regions let loose at once. Could an original Fury look more horrible than this old woman, with her grey nodding head, and blind vindictive passion. He hears his voice faltering, and knows that he is edging towards the door. After all, .what can the bravest man do with an angry old woman, except to get away from her as quickly as possible ? And the pro- fessor, though brave enough in the usual ways, is not brave where women are concerned. " Guardian or no guardian, I will thank you to remember you are in my house ! " cries Miss Majendie, in a shrill tone that runs through the professor's head. "Certainly. Certainly," says he, confuse Jly, and then he slips out of the room, and having felt ^he door close behind him, runs tumultuously down the staircase. For years he has not gone down any staircase so swiftly. A vague, if unacknowledged, feeling that he is literally making his escape from a vital danger, is lending wings to his feet. Before him lies the hall-door, and that way safety lies, safety from that old gaunt, irate figure upstairs, ^e is not allowed to reach, however — just yet. A door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously ; a shapely little head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious red lips whisper : — " Mr. Curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, " Sh—^/i / " tj* A in TLB REBEL, IS in answer to [1 CHAPTFR V. *• 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 Perpelua. 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 foiefiiiger 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 vehe- mently, 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 — ^oyou 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 him* self very considerably. 3 Pi I I 34 A LITTLE REBEL. "■ 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 ihmgs. 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 thi '. and lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. Then it fades, and she grows sorrowful again. "Well, /can't study,'" says she. " Why not ? " demands the professor quickly. Here he is en his own ground ; :ind liere he has u pupil tg his hand — A LITTLE REBEL. 35 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. (ict knowledge— such knowledge as the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. 1 can lend you yomc books, easy ones at first, and " *' I couldn't read ;w/;- 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, sigh- ing. " 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 I " said the professor gruffly. " You mustn't think I'm afraid about that,''* says I'erpetua demurely ; '' I'm not. 1 know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me for long, so /'/// all right." The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to mirth. " Ah 1 Hozu you arc on my side," cries his ward exul- tantly. 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 knt)W ? ( )ne w /uld think 1 was a dunce — that I knew nothing — whereas, 1 assure you/' throwing out her other hand, " 1 know (juite as much as most girls, and a great deal more than many. % ill' J' il 1 i 36 A UTILE REBEL, in ^\ V, I daresay," putting her head to one side, and examining him thoughfully, " 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, vvith as good an air as he can com- mand. " Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noise- lessly. " 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 uncon- sciously, 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 oft' 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.' can corn- ier uncon- - A LITTLE REBEL. 37 "Not come again ? Why?" "Fd 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, feel- ing 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 sotne 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 sup- pose. She seems kind. She said she would take me to a concert soon, but she has not been hero for many days, I daresay she has forgotten ^U ftbout it by this Ume," I 3« A LITTLE REBEL. ■ii ■'' 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 heret 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 prob- lem difticult 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 gent/ewomen in our time, Mr. Curzon, never went out walking, a/one, with A Man I " 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, some- what sadly. " No, you're not," says she. " / 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 A LITTLE REBEL. 39 ;ssor s IS the soft lin — and rofessor, treated ? 1, should I a prob- ing fails declares ) what I le would md folds ler chin, :he spot, ' Young ent out a faint rth, and fifty ! " *, some- an ihat. ur age e not a 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 youtli 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 / were old, and then I should be able to get away from Aunt Jane — with- out — witliout any troubie.'' " I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor gravely. " I hate die place," cries she with a frown. " I shan't be able to stay here. Oh I 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 " wasti't an old man of fifty Tlie professor checks his thoughts, they are growing too mixed. " We should have been so happy," Perpetua is going on, her tone regretful. " We could iiavc gone everywhere together, you and I. I should have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to afternoons. Vou would have been so happy, and so should I. You would-^ wouldn't you } " W ■ii ^!' I, f r. 40 A LITTLE REBEL, I lr 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 per- fect 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 Iggkin^ $q intensely, that he forgets to »peak, and Fer- ■ 1 A LITTLE REBEL. 41 she has r speech, d in per- •d to me [ should for you, » e season sting the jre finds air, and I, a soft, the fact vith her ended, ge is in vithout, at luck Mrs. to dine breath, ird, he id Per- petua'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 pro- fessor. "One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is still unfortunate. " You evade the question," says she frowning. " But a concert isnU 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 7iot like a ball." " No — I suppose not." " I can see what you are thinking," returns she, strug- gling with her mortification. *' And it is very hard of you. Just because you don't care to go anywhere, you think / 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.'* \ .1 '■: Ml 1:1 If i ' t 11 :l i »■' '•' I! liM I I ill I 42 /I J.TTTT F. RF.PET.. 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, 1 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 pro- fessor 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 ! " "/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 in- vented." A iiTTi.r. nr.BEL, 43 plexed — not read slightly. *vill grow asides, I hole life, y, " isn't rofessor, nd then with my r mirth, with it. le leans :arriage. wearing he pro- s," says e better /torrid ication, would mbling, een in- 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 mani- festly unjust that he lakes 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 I But, after all, how could she know thai ? ** 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 "Any there forever," says she slowly. ** And so — you really think " she is looking very earn- estly 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 car- riage. ' " My guardian — Mr. Curzon. "Ah I " 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 go?ie I sometimes think of him as being pretty young, but when he is with me, he is old — old and grave; ! " Ir'i ili III 'I'll 44 A LITTLE REBEL, " As a guardian should be, with such a pretty ward," says Mrs. Constans, smiling. " His back looks young, how- ever." '' And his laugh sounds young." " Ah 1 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 ! " aK*'u ward," g, how- A LITTLE REBEL. 4S ss, it is a —and — CHAPTER VI ** I le is happy whose circumstances suit his temper ; but he is more excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances." *' The idea oi your having a ward ! I could quite as soon imagine your having a wife," says Hardinge. He knocks the ash off his cigar, and after meditating for a moment, leans back in his chair and gives way to irrepressible mirth. " I don't see wliy I shouldn't have a wife as well as another," says the professor, idly tapping his forefinger on the table near him. *' She would bore me. But a great many fellows are bored." '' V'ou have grasped one great truth if you never grasp another I " says Mr. Hardinge, who has now recovered. " Catch mc marrying." " It's unlucky to talk like that," says the professor. " It looks as though your time were near. In Sophocles' time there was a man who " " Oh, bother Sophocles, you know I never let you talk anything but wiiolesome nonsense when I drop in for a smoke with you," says the younger man. "You began very well, with that superstition of yours, but I won't have it spoiled by erudition. Tell me about your ward." " Would that be nonsense .;* " says the professor, with a faint smile. I -(♦•i. 46 A UTILE REREI., m ■ m They arc sitting in the professor's room with the windows thrown wide open to let in any < lumce gust of air that Heaven in its mercy may send them. It is night, and very late at nigiit tot> — the clock indeed is on the stroke of twelve. It seems a long, long time to the ])rofessor since the afternoon — the afternoon of this very day — when ho had seen I'erpetua silting in that open carriage. He had only been half glad when Harold Hardinge — a young man, and yet, strmge to say, his most intimate friend — had dropped in to smoke a pii)C with him. Hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and was drawn to him by curious intricate webs. The professor suited him, and he suited the professor, though in truth Hardinge was nothing more than a gay young society man, with just the average amount of brains, but not an ounce beyond that. A tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, a dark moustache and a happy manner, Mr. Hardinge laughs his way through life, without money, or love, or any other troubles. " Can you ask ? " says he. *' Go on, Curzon. What is she like?" " It wouldn't interest you,'' says the professor " I beg your pardon, it is profoundly interesting ; I've got to keep an eye on you, or else in a weak moment you will let her marry you." The professor moves uneasily. " May I ask how you knew I had a ward ? " " That should go without telling. I arrived here to-night to find you absent and Mrs. Mulcahy in possession, pre- tending to dust the furniture. She asked me to sit down—. I obeyed her. Ml A LITTLE REBEL. 47 iiulows lir tliat nd very rokc of )r bince 'hen he He had iig man, id — liad s fonder him by and he nothing average lair and ner, Mr. 3ney, or What is ig ; I've ent you to-night on, pre- down— . ** * How's the professor ? ' " said I. *• ' Me dear I ' said she, * that's a bad story. He's that distracted ' ver a young lady that his own mother wouldn't know him ! ' *' I acknowledge I blushed. I went even so far as to make a few pantomimic gestures suggestive of the horror I was experiencing, and finally I covered my face with my handkerchief. I regret to say that Mrs. Mulcahy took my modesty in bad part. *' * Arrah ! git out wid ye ! ' says she, * ye scamp o' the world. 'Tis a ward the masther has taken an' notliin' more.' " I said I thought it was quite enough, and asked if you had taken it badly, and what the doctor thought of you. But she wouldn't listen to me. " * Look here, Misther Hardinge,' said she. * I've come to the conclusion that wards is bad for the professor. I haven't seen the young lady, I confess, but I'm cock-sure that she's got the divil's own temper ! ' " Hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor — " Has she ? " says he. " N — o," — says the professor — a little frowning lovely crimson face rises before him — and then a laughing one. " No," says he more boldly, " she is a little impulsive, per- haps, but " " Just so. Just so," says Mr. Hardinge pleasantly, and then, after a kindly survey of his companion's features, " She is rather a trouble to you, old man, isn't she ? " " She ? No," says the professor again, more quickly this time. " It is only this — she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poor father sent her — he is i . > iiii !i ' \ i^ii!;'! ': a' 1 f 1 I t ■ '' 1 i ii 1 1 !; 1 '111!:! 1 ii;! 1 ill Iiii 1 ^ li i 4S A LITTLE REBEL . dead — and I have to look out for some one else to take care of her, until she comes of age." *' I see. I should think you would have to hurry up a bit," says Mr. Hardinge, taking his cigar from his lips, and letting the smoke curl upwards slowly, thoughtfully. " Impu''sive people have a trick of being impatient — of acting for themselves— — " ** She cannot," says the professor, with anxious haste. ** She knows nobody in town." " Nobody ? " *' Except me, and a woman who is a friend of her aunt's. If she were to go to her, she would be taken back again. Perpetua knows that." ' " Perpetua ! Is that her name ? What a peculiar one ? Perpetua " '• Miss Wynter," sharply. " Perpetua — Miss Wynter ! Exactly so ! It sounds like — Dorothea — Lady Highflown ! Well, your Lady High- flown doesn't. }eem to have many friends here. What a pity you can't send her back to Australia ! " The professor is silent. " It would suit all sides. I daresay the poor girl is pining for the freedom of her old home. And, I must say, it is hard li.ies for you. A girl with a temper, to be " " I did not say she had a temper." Hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses to pat the professor affectionately on the back. " Of course not ! Don't I know you ? You would die r])apa — and. . . well, that was the end. I told her — amongst ot/ier 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 doesiit see. He is still sitting on the edge of the table — dumb. "Oh ! I'm ^og/ad 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 I What's thit in your glass ? " " Nothing," says the professor hastily. He removes the ha'if-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 hiniself amongst many small contrivances in the same cup- boa I and! her A LITTLE REPEL. n it in board. It has gone to liis 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 t*^ 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 catCt ! " 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, get- ting 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." 1:^ iif I 54 A LITTLE REBEL. '* So much the better ! " says Perpetiia, 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, SLndyoji'rea.ma.n ! Tell one of your servants to make me up a room some- where." " 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'i put me away somewhere. T/iaf 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, nOy NO ! " cries he, just as impulsively, and deci- dedly 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 / 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 ? r( A LITTLE REI^EL. s$ 1 a little )f women [It least," e a man ! )m some- ler chair I'l put me 1 that I'll ' up any d I shall It that is beg you is out of ng to her on his. ind deci- mortified ing smile 11 things . "Only all. And help. I ^member ; Jane's ? How I told you of the happy days we should have toge- ther, 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 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 hini ! " 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 dis- cussed ! 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, sympa- thetically. " And they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now ; but that it was a great pity you ■ I„ '•^d. Ill M ■ I 1 ;i. a 56 A LITTLE REBEL. hadn't a daughter. / 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 beam- ing smile. **/'// be your dn ugh ter," says she. The professor goes rigid with horror. Wiiat lias he done that the Fates should so visit him ? " Tluy said something else loo," goes on Terpetua, this liire lathor 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, /'// bru::h it for you." " I^ook here ! " says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but very genuine. ** You must go, you know. i\o, at once ! D'ye see? You can't stay in this house, d'ye /tear ? 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 guirdian hap 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 A riTT/.F. REBEL. n out your hink you 1 a beam- lie (fo;ie itua, this jver llint " means ind, 77/ subdued ►u know. s house, or mean as leant rofessor 1 ; right > to the nerved, lirdian think ) come *' 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 expres- sively, " is a guardian /or, if it isn't to take care of people ? " The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has over- come 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 his ward more about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she — awful thought — will she trust him ? What is she thinking now ? *' I said, ' Ts Mr. Curzon at home ? ' and she said, * Well I niver I* So I saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor crea- ture 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 ! " 1.1 !< II ! 1 1,1 . III 1 1 S8 A LITTLE REBEL. Here she is now at all eventb, 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. A LITTLE REBEL, 59 twelve at I. She is professor le fortune nny little amp with anything ungodly ything to got you;' :ly. His able and say this. 1 the hall ng. But s is safe an think blesome urely in there is rd, and le, that crash to Y bones With a little cry of horror she recoils from them. Per- haps her nerves are more out of order than she knows, perhaps the long fast and long drive here, and her recep- tion from her guardian at the end of it — so different from what she had imagimed — 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, ** \{ 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 apart' ments 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 1 » i^i ' Hi ' /i LIT'lLE KEliLL. CHAPTER VIII. ''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." "Shk'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 petri- fied for the moment — only for the moment. " That girl ! My ward ! All women are demons /" says the i)rofessor 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 1 " with a groan. " She says she's /iun,qry, 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, '* Eve- rett's a Sybarite, you know, of the worst kind — sure to find something here, and we can s(|uare it with him afterwards. Bcal we and I Hre 1 th low.' youl No\ <( /< I ITTIE Kh.Hh.l CI ss, as well . •' Sh c away. 1 am to vs pctri- /" says les as if »i says mces It is sake ng but Hildn't ' Kve- to find vards, Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all hearts, //ere we are /" holding out at arm's length a pasty. " A 'weal and amnier ! ' Take it I 'Die guilt be on my head! Bread — butter — pickled onions ! Oh, not pickled onions, I think. Really, 1 had no idea even Kverett 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 wratii. " And let me tell you, Har- dinge, that there are occasions when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness and vulgarity ! " He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Har- dinge, let us hope, a pray to remorse. I is true, at least of that young man, that he covers his face with his hands ;iiid sways from side to side, as if overcome by some secret emotion, (iricf — no doubt. Perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the i)rofessor 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 liimself — (the professor doesn't often think of himself ) — but for her. And where is she to sleep ? To turn her out now would be impossi- ble ! After all, it was a puerile trifling with the Inevitable, to shirk asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to cat for his self-imposed guest— because the question of J^ai is 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 ^'ven up to her protection. .Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this unget- u H A LITTLE REBEL, outable fact, he becomes aware of a resounding knock at his door. Paralyzed, he gazes in the direction of the sound. It can' f be Hardinge, he would never knock like that ! 'i'lie knock in itself, indeed, is of such force and volume as to strike terror into the bravest breast. It is — it niusi 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 mcanin' 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. Mulcaliy with a beaming face. She has had something to eat, and is once again her own buoyant, way- ward, light-hearted little self. " Oh ! it is all right /i()7tjf Mrs. Mulcahy," cries she, whilst the professor grows cold with horror at this auda- cious 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 unhaj)py I was with Aunt fane ? — he.':, told you, I daresay," — witii 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?" as bi A LITTLE REBEL. cnock at e sound, at ! 'I'iic tne as to '4st be — answer^ ignation dignity this?" mouth, up, and las had It, way- es she, s auda- lo you , and I t mean I was a little ssor — you — ^uie is when tid tell body. 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 Irish- woman. 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 knonf 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 thee 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 li'i' A LITTLE REBEL. doors, or she'll git what she won't like from Biddy Mul- cahy. 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 Trith 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. Mul- cahy has certainly tided him safely over one of his difficul- ties. 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 foolhardliicss, nay ignorance ! Once again, sunk in the meshes of depression, the per- secuted 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 pro- fessor'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." A LITTLE REBEL. H , " So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip — or your nose — or " " IV/iaf is there in Everett's cvii)boaid 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, fAat'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 J^rus/f my hair ! To — make my tea. She says Fm her ilili' 01 A LITTLE REBEL, guardian, and insists on living with me. She doesn't under- stand ! Hardinge," desperately, " what am I to do ? " " Marry her ! " suggests Hardinge, who I regret to say is choking with laughter. "That is ay«//" says the profesor 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 M/'j, 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 Har- dinge — 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 sh^ will never j^o baqk tQ h^r avnt," A LITTLE REBEL, <7 t undei- lo ? " t to say This the soul ►r's new a tired It. As len. the old lat the er aunt Is back id we'll n draw way," ung it 1, and s table J Har- i loses mind never He looks anxiously at Hardingc. One can see that he Avould 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 \q you,, Cur- zon, 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, how- ever, an irrepressible stare at the professor. It is a pro- longed stare. He is very fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him beyond tiie 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 ? " es A LITTLE REBEL. ** She doesn't seem to like aunts," says the professor, with deep dejection. " Small blame to her," says Hardinge, smoking vigor- ously. " Fve an aunt — but ' that's another story ! * Well 1 — 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 accom- plished that deed. He leans across the table. Surprise has deprived him of his usual good manners. *' Lady Baring \-^your sister ! " says he. "I call A LITTLE REBEL. <» says been CHAPTER IX. '* Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men May read strange matters." " I .SEE no reason why she shouldn't be," says the professor calmly — is there a faint suspicion of hauteur in his tone ? " As we arc on the subject of myself, I may as well tell you that my brother is Sir Hastings Curzon, of whom " — he turns back as if to take up some imaginary article from the floor — " you may have heard." " Sir Hasting.s I" Mr. Hardinge leans back in his chair and gives way to thouglit. This quiet, hard-working stu- dent — tliis man whom he had counted as a nobody — the brother of that disreputable Hastings Curzoii ! '* As good as got the baronetcy," says he still thinking. ** At the rate Sir Hastings is going he can't possibly last for another twelvemonth, and here is this fellow living in these dismal lodgings with twenty thousand a year before his eyes. A lucky thing for him that the estates are so strictly entailed. Good heavens ! to think of a man with all that almost in his grasp being happy in a coat that must have been built in the Ark, and caring for nothing on earth but the intes- tines of frogs and such-like aboiin'nHiions." " You seem surprised again," says the professor, some- what satirically. " I confess it," says Hardinge. " I can't see why you should be." M I it 70 A WniE REBEL. **/do," says Hardinge drily. "That you," slowly, ^^ you should be Sir Hastings' brother ! Why " '• No more ! " interrupts the professor sharply. He lifts his hand. " Not another word. I know what you art- going to say. It is one of my greatest troubles, that 1 always know what people are going lo say when they mention him. Let him alone, Hardinge." ^ " Oh ! ril let him alone," -ays Hi rdi ige, witli a gesture of disgust. There is i:.iUi>e. " You know my sister, t' en.-' * s ,}; the professor pre- sently. " Yes. She is very charming. How is it I have never seen you there ? " " At her house?" " At her receptions ? " " I have no taste for that sort of thing, and no time. Fashionable society bores me. I go and see Gwen, on off days and early hours, when I am sure that I shall find her ulone. We are friends, you will understand, she and I ; capital friends, though sometimes," with a sigh, " she — she seems to disapprove of my mode of living. But we get on very well on the whole. She is a very good girl," says the professor kindly, who always thinks of Lady Baring as a little girl in short frocks in her nursery — the nursery he had occupied with her. To hear the beautiful, courted, haughty Lady Baring, who has the best of London at her feet, called " a good girl," so tickles Mr. Hardinge, that he leans back in his chair and bursts out laughing. i< Y^jj j) »» j.yyg ^\^^ professor, as if asking for an explana- tion of the joke. ly, ''yoti He lifts you arc 5, that 1 len they I gesture jsor pre- VQ never A LITTLE REBEL. 7« no time, n, on off lall find nd, she a sigh, f living, s a very hinks of irsery — Baring, ' a good k in his ixplana- " Oh ! nothing — nothing. Only — you are such a queer fellow ! " says Hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. ** You are a ; ara avis, do you know ? No, of course you don't! You re one of the fcv people who don't know their own wo:th. I don't believe, Curzon, th* ugh I should live to be a * lousi id, that I shall ever look upon your like acjain." " And so you laugh. Well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection," says the professor dismally. " I begin to wish now I had never seen myself." " Oh, come ! cheer up," says Hardinge, " your pretty ward will be all right. If Lady Baring takes her in hand, she " '' Ah ! But will she ? " says the professor. *' Will she like Per Miss Wynter ? " *'Sure to," said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthu- siasm. " * To see her is to love her, and love but ' " " That is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except Lady Baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, " and my sister has not seen her as yet. And besides, that is not the only question — a greater one re- mains." " By Jove ! you don't say so 1 What ? " demands Mr. Hardinge, growing earnest. " Will Miss Wynter like /ler ? " says the professor. " That is the real point." " Oh ! I see ! " says Hardinge thoughtfully. The next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both quarters. An early visit to Lady Baring, and an anxious appeal, brings out all that delightful woman's best 7* A LiniE REBEL, qualities. One stipulation alone she makes, that she may sec the young heiress before finally committing herself to chaperone her safely through the remainder of the season. The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for Mrs. Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward for a drive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landlady full directions to see that Miss Wynter looks — " er — nice ! you know, Mrs. Mulcahy, her best suit, and " Mrs. Mulcahy came generously to the rescue. " Her best frock, sir, 1 suppose, an' her Sunday bonnet. I've often wished it before, Mr. Curzon, an' I'm thinkin' that 'twill be the makin' of ye ; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no mistake. An' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer pardon ? ' " I am," says the professor. " Oh no, sir ; the likes was never known. 'Tis the the father or one of his belongings as gives away the bride, niver the husband to be, 'an if ye have nobody, sir, you two, why I'm sure I'd be proud to act for ye in this mat- ther. Faix I don't disguise from ye, Misther Curzon, dear, that I feels like a mother to that purty child this moment, an' I tell ye thisy that if ye don't behave dacent to her, ye'U have to answer to Mrs. Mulcahy for that same." " What d'ye mean, woman ? " roars the professor, indig- nantly. " Do you imagine that I— — ? " " No. I'd belave nothin' bad o* ye," says Mrs. Mulcahy solemnly. '' I've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. But that child beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife-=^— »" (( i she may lerself to e season, is rooms, take his intensely i Wynter dest suit, bonnet. thinkin' e, purty 5 to give Tis the le bride, sir, you lis mat- n, dear, loment, ler, ye'll r, indig- ulcahy a fault ivay to 4 imLE KEHEL, H "You must be mad," says the professor, a strange, curious pang contracting his heart. " I am not taking her away to f — I am taking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest." '• Mad ! " repeats Mrs. Mulcaiiy furiously. " Who's mad ? Faix," preparing to leave the room, " 'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse ! " The meeting between Lady Baring and Perpetua is eminently satisfactory. Tlie latter, looking lovely, but a little frightened, so takes Lady Baring's artistic soul by storm, that that great lady then and there accepts the situa- tion, and asks Perpetua if she will come to her for a week or so. Perpetu'i, charmed in turn by Lady Baring's grace and beauty and pretty ways, receives the invitation with pleasure, little dreaming that she is there ** on view," as it were, and that the invitation is to be prolonged indefinitely — that is, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other. The professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise and loosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, begging her to begin to feel at home at once. Alas ! He has deliberately given up his ward ! His ward ! Is she any longer his ? Has not the great world claimed her now, and presendy will she not belong to it? So lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch the prize ? — a prize, bejewelled too, not only by Nature, but by that gross material charm that men call wealth. Well, well, he has done his best for her. There was, indeed, not >g left to do. I 74 A LITTLE REBELn CHAPTER X. " The sun Is sill about the world we see, 'I'he breath and strength of very Spring ; and we Live, love, and feed on our own hearts." TuF. lights are burning low in tlie conservatory., soft perfumes from the many Howcrs fill the air. Krom beyond — somewhere — (there is a delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where) — comes the sound of music, soft, rhymical, and sweet. Perhaps it is from one of the rooms outside — dimly seen through the green foliage — where the lights are more brilliant, and forms arc moving. But just in here there is no music save the tinkling drip, drip of the little fountain that plays idly amongst the ferns. Lady Baring is at home lo-iiighi, and in the big, bare rooms outside dancing is going on, and in the smaller rooms, tiny tragedies and comedies are being enacted by amateurs, who, oh, wondrous tale ! do know their parts and speak them, albeit no stage '* projier " lias been pre- pared for them. Perhaps that is why stage-fright is not for them — a stage as big as '* all the world " leaves actors very free. But in here — here, with the dainty flowers and dripping fountains, there is surely no thought of comedy or tragedy. Only a little girl gowned all in white, with snowy arms and neck, and diamonds gittering in the soft masses of her waving hair. A happy little girl, to judge by the soft smile A LITTLE REBEL, 75 ve lory., soft beyond — Illy about lical, and outside — lights are t in Iierc the h'ttle big, bare smaller :icted by leir parts >een pre- it is not cs actors dripping tragedy, irnis and !s of her 3ft smile upon her lovely lips, and the gleam in her dark eyes. Leaning back in her seat in the dim, cool recesses of the conservatory, amongst the flowers and the greeneries, she looks like a little nymph in love with the silence and the sense of rest that the hour holds. It is broken, however. ** I am so sorry you are not dancing," says her compa- nion, leaning towards her. His regret is evidently genuine, indeed, to Hardinge the evening is an ill-spent one that precludes his dancing with Pe|)elua Wynicr. *' Vcs ? " she looks up at him from her low lounge amongst the palms.* "Well, so am I, do you know!" telling the truth openly, yet with an evident sense of shame. ** But I don't dance now because — it is selfish, isn't it ? — because I should be so uniiappy afterwards if I did!'' ** A i)erfecl reason,' says Hardinge very earnestly. He is still leaning towards her, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on hers. It is an intent gaze that seldom wanders, and in truth why should it? Where is any other thing as good to look at as this small, fair creature, with the eyes, and the hair, and tlio lips that belong to her? He has taken ])ossession of her fan, and gently, lovingly, as though indeed it is part of her, is holding it, raising it sometimes to swc^p the feathers of it across his lips. '* Do you think so?" sa) ; she, as if a little puzzled. " Well, J confess I don't like the moments when I hate myself. We all hate ourselves sometimes, don't we ? " looking at him as if doubtfully, " or is it only I myself, who " !!• 1^ 7i A LITTLE REBEL, ( " Oh, no I " says Hardinge. " All ! All of use detest ourselves now and ag^in, or at least we think we do. It comes to the same thing, but you — you have no cause." " I should have if I danced," says she, " and I couldn't bear the after reproach, so I don't do it." " And yet — yet you would like to dance ? " " I don't know " She hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth. " At all events I know ////V," says she, " that I wish the band would not play such nice waltzes ! " Hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little ashamed of herself. Her color rises, a delicate warm color that renders her absolutely adorable. " Shall I order them to stop ? " asks Hardinge, laughing still, yet with something in his gaze that tells her he would forbid them to play if he could, if only to humor her. " No ! " says she, " and after all," — philosophically — " enjoyment is only a name." ** That's all ! " says Hardinge, smiling. " But a very good one." " Let us forget it," with a little sigh, " and talk of some- thing else, something pleasanter." " Than enjoyment ? " j She gives way to h:s mood and laughs afresh. { " Ah 1 you have me there ! " says she. f " I have not, indeed," he returns, quietly and with mean- ing. ** Neither there, nor anywhere." [ He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which she is sitting. A LITTLE REBET rr sc detest z do. It ause." couldn't nly looks , " At all the band [le laughs and as if 1 delicate laughing le would ler. lically — t a very ofsoinc- th mean- over the *'We were talking of what?" asks slie, with admiral)le courage, "of names, was it not? An endless subject. My name now ? An absurd one surely. Perpetua ! I don't like Perpetua, do you ? " She is evidently talking at ran- dom. " I do indeed ! " says Hardinge, promptly and fervently. His tone accentuates his meaning. " Oh, but so harsh, so unusual ! " "Unusual ! That in itself constitutes a charm." " I was going to add, however — disagreeable." " Not that — never that," says Hardinge. " You mean to say you really //^est man a little into the scarcely it is ! " she says fretfi lly. " I wish- ti What she was going to say, will never now be known. The approach of a tall, gaunt figure through the hanging oriental curtains at the end of the conservatory checks her speech. Sir Hastings Curzon is indeed taller than most men, and is, besides, a man hardly to be mistaken again when once seen. Perpetua has seen him very fre- quently of late. e a fresh ofessor's fore the ? " ipology, I verily d notes, at him fan falls : with a brilliant warm « 82 A LITTLE REBEL, CHAPTER XI. " But all was false and hollow ; though his tongue Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels." " Shall I take you to Lady Baring ? " says Hardinge, quickly, rising and bending as if to offer her his arm. ** No, thank you," coldly. " 1 think," anxiously, "you once told me you did not care for Sir " " Did I ? It seems quite terrible the amount of things 1 have told everybody." There is a distinct flash in her lovely eyes now, and her small hand has tightened round her fan. " Sometimes — I talk folly ! As a fact " (with a touch of defiance), " I like Sir Hastings, although he is my guardian's brother ! — my guardian who would so gladly get rid of me." There is bitterness on the young, red mouth. " You should not look at it in that light." " Should I not ? You should be the last to say that, seeing that you were the one to show me how to regard it. Besides, you forget Sir Hastings is Lady Baring's brother too, and — you haven't anything to say against her^ have you ? Ah ! " with a sudden lovely smile, " you, Sir Hastings?" " You are not dancing," says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up to her. " So mvich I have seen. Too A LITTLE REBEL. ear [ardinge, m. did not )f things h in her d round (with a he is my ) gladly ing, red ly that, Jgard it. brother r, have 3U, Sir n, who . Too warm? Eh? You show reason, I think. And yet, if I might dare to hope that you would give mc this waltz " '' No, no,'' says she, still with her most charming air. " I am not dancing to-night, i shall not dance this year." ** That is a Medinn l.iw, no doubt,' says he. '* If you will not dance with me, then may I hope that you will give me the few too short moments liiai this waltz may con- tain ? " Hardingc makes a vague movement but an impetuous one. if the girl had realized the fact of i:is love for her, she might have been touched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of anger towards him. Anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless intense. " With pleasure," says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almost across Hardinge's outstretched hand. The latter draws back. " Vou dismiss me ?" says he, with a careful smile. He bows to her — he is gone. " A well-meaning young man," says Sir Hastings, follow- ing Hardinge's retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile. "Good-looking too; but earnest. Have you noticed it? luuirely well-bred, but just a little earnest ! Such a mistake ! ' " I don't think that," says Perpetua. " To be earnest ! One should be earnest." " Should one ? " Sir Hastings looks delighted expecta- tion. *' Tell me about it," says he. " There is nothing to lell," says Perpetua, a little petu- lantly i)erhaps. This tall, thin man ! what a bore he is ! And yet, the other — ^Ir. Hardinge — well he was worse; 84 A riTTT E REP EI. 1 he was di/ooi, anyway ; he didn't understand the professor one bit ! ** I like Mr. Hardinge," says she suddenly. " Happy Hardinge I iiut little girls like you are good to everyone, are you not.'* That is what makes you so lovely. You could be good to even a scapegrace, eh ? A jKjor, sad outcast like me?" He laughs and leans to- wards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to hers. InvoluiJlaril) '»e rcjoils. "I hope cveij .(lie is good to you," says she. "Why should they not be ? And why do you call yourself an oul'.ast ? ^>nly bad j)eople are outcasts. And bad people," slowly, " are not known, are they ? " ** Certainly not," says he, disconcerted. This little girl fiom a far land is proving her-self too much for him. And it is not her words that disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from her thoughtful eyes. To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him. " 1 hope you arc hap!;>)' here with my sister,"' says he, in his anything but everyday tone. ''Quite happy, thank you. IJut 1 should have been happier still, I think, if I had been allowed to stay with your brother." Sir Hastings drops his glasses, (lood heavens ! what kind of a girl is this ! " To stay with my brother I To stuy,'^ stammers he. " Yes. He is your brother, isn't he ? Tiie professor, I mean. 1 should (|uite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of it. He — he doesn't like me, I'm afri tha^ mini one] an somi her A i.nTi.E r^r.PET . «5 been with afraid?" Pcrpetuii looks at him anxiously. A little hope that he will contradict Hardinge's statement animates her mind. To feel herself a burden to her guardian — lo any- one — she, who in the old home had been nothing less ilian an idol ! Surely Sir Hastings, his own brother, will say something, will tell her somcthmg to ease this chagrm at her heart. "Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? 1 shouldn't put it beyond him. He is a misogy- nist ; a mere bookworm ! Of no account. Do not waste a thought on him." " You mean ? " " That he detests the best part of life— that he has deh'- berately turned his back on all that makes our existence here wortli the having. I should call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile in one's family." " The best part of life ! You say he has turned his back on that." She lets iier hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, i)erplexed, but always lovely face to his. '■' What is it," asks she, " that best parr. ? " " Women ! " returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence, the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before him. Her eyes do not fall before his. She is j)lainly thinking. Yes ; Mr. Hardinge was right, he will never like her. She is only a stay, a hindrance to luni ! " I understand," says she sorrowfully. " He will not care — ever. I shall be always a trouble to him. He " '' Why tiiink of him? " says Sir Hastings contemptuous- ly. He leans towards her ,; tired by her beauty, that is now I W A tin LP. Krnf'j. enhanced by the regret llwit lies upon lu r prriiy lips, hf determines on pushing his cause ai onci*. " U /if rannot appreciate you, others can — / can. 1 " He pauses ; for the first time in his life, on such an occasion as this, he is conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. To tell a woman he loves her has been the simplest thing in the world hitherto, but now, when at last he is in earnest — when poverty has driven him to seek marriage with an heiress as a cure for all his ills — he finds himself tongue-tied ; and not only by the importance of the situation, so far as money go• A LITTLE REBEL, " Nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone. Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this un< mistakable trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real character exposed. " Well, I have told you," says he coldly. " It is a mistake," says the professor. " He would not dare to approach a young, innocent girl. The most honor- able proposal such a man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable." ** Ah ! you see it in that light too," says Hardinge, with a touch of relief. " My dear fellow, it is hard for me to discuss him with you, but yet I fear it must be done. Did you notice nothing in his manner last night?" Yes, the professor had noticed something. Now there comes back to him that tall figure stooping over Perpetua, the handsome, leering face bent low — the girl's instinctive withdrawal. " Something must be done," says he. " Yes. And quickly. Young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his sort. And Per — Miss Wynter . . . Look here, Curzon," breaking off hurriedly. *' This x^yotir affair, you know. You are her guardian. You should see to it." *' I could speak to her." " That would be fatal. She is just the sort of girl to say * Yes ' to him because she was told to say ' No.' " ''You seem to have studied her," says the professor quietly. "Well, I confess I have seen a good deal of her of of late." .4 I iTri.E KF.nr.i.. 97 " And to some purpose. 'our knowledge of her should lead you to making a way out of this difficulty." ** I have thought of one," says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quick flush. " You are her guardian. Why not arrange another marriage for her, before this affair with Sir Has- tings goes too far." " There are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, liis tone always very low, " Who is it to whom you pro- pose to marry Miss Wynter ? " Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again. *' You have known me a long time, Curzon," says he at last. " You — you have been my friend. I have family — position — money — I " *• I am to understand, then, that you are a candidate for the hand of my ward,'' says the professor slowly, so slowly that it might suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great difficulty in speaking at all. " Yes," says Hardinge, very diffidently. He looks ap- pealingly at the professor. I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better," says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. " But if it comes to a choice between me and your brother, I — I think I am the better man. By Jove, Curzon," growing hot, " it's awfully rude of me, I know, but it is so hard to remember that he is your brother." But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, so entirely unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it may reasonably be suDposed he hasn't heard a WQrd of it. 7 98 // LITTLE RF.nrJ. m ti " And she ? " says he. '* Perpetua. Docs she ' He hesitates as if finding it impossible to go on. *• Oh ! I don't knov;/' says the younger man, with a rather rueful smile. " Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she does for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and sometimes " expressive pause. " Yes ? Sometimes ? " " She has seemed kind." "Kind? How kind?" " Well — friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night she let me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one with your brother." ** Is it ? " asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. ** Is it — I am not much in your or her world, you know — is it a very marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man ? " " Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but she is not like other girls, is she ? " The professor waves this question aside. " Keep to the point," says he. *' Well, she is the point, isn't she ? And look here, Cur- zon, why aren't you of our world ? It is your own fault surely ; when one sees your sister, your brother, and — and M/V," with a slight glance round the dull little apartment, " one cannot help wondering why you " " Let that go by," says the professor. " I have explained it before. I deliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more than I have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gave you — encouragement? " " Oh 1 hardly that. And yet — she certainly seemed to A I. ITT 1. 1: NEni.I . 99 like — that is not Id dislikr my being wiih licr ; and once — well," — confusedly — •' lli.it was nothing." " It must have been something." " No, really ; and I shouldn't have mentioned it cither — not for a moment. " The professor's face c;hangcs. The apathy that has la'in upon it for the past five minutes now ^ives way to a touch of fierce despair. Me turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the window, gnzes sightlessly on the hot. sunny street below. What was it — what I .Shall he ever have the courage to find out? And is this to be the end of it all? In a Hash the coming of the girl is present before him, and now, heie is her going. Had she — ha " ' " Partly because of that. Partly because I trust to your own instincts to see the wisdom of so doing." ^' Ah ! you beg the question," .says she, " but I'm not «o 9ure X shall obey you for all that." iia A LITTLE A'A/;AV. , I p ' '* Pcrpetua ! Do not speak to nic like that, I implore you," says the professor, very pule. '* Do you liiink I am not saying all this for your good? Sir Hastings — he is my brother — it is hard for me to explain myself, but he will not make you happy." " Happy ! You think of my happiness ?" " Of what else ? " A strange yearning look comes into his eyes. *' God knows it is al/ I think of," says he. " And so you would marry me to Mr. Hardinge ? " " Hardinge is a good man, and — he loves you." " If so, he is the only one on earth who does," cries the girl bitterly. She turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for a moment, then looks back at him. '' Well. I shall not marry him," says she. " That is in your own hands," says the professor. " But I shall have something to say about the other proposal you speak of." " Do you think I want to marry your brother ? " says she. " I tell you no, no, no ! A thousand times no ! The very fact that he is your brother would prevent me. To be your ward is bad enough, to be your sister-in-law would be insufferable. For all the world I would not be more to you than I am now." " It is a wise decision," says the professor icily. He feels smitten to his very heart's core. Had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearer tie between them? — if so the dream is broken now. " Decision ? " stammers she. " Not to marry my brother." <* Not to be nfiore to you, you mQan \ " A LIITLE REBEL «13 " You don't know what you are saying," says the pro- fessor, driven beyond his self-control. '' You are a mere child, a baby, you speak at random." " What ! " cries she, flashing round at him, " will you deny that I have been a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had you never heard my name?" "You are riglit," gravely. " I deny nothing. I wish with all my soul I had never heard your name. I confess you troubled me. I go beyond even Ma/, I declare that you have been my undoing ! And now, let us make an end of it. I am a poor man and a busy one, this task your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me. I shall resign my guardianship ; Gwendoline — Lady Baring — will accept the position. She likes you, and — you will find it hard to break her heart." *' Do you mean," says the girl, " that T have broken yours ? Yours ? Have I been so bad as that ? Yours ? I have been wilful, I know, and troublesome, but troublesome people do not break one's heart. What have I done then that yours should be broken?" She has moved closer to him. Her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his. " Do not think of that," says the professor, unsteadily. " Do not let that trouble you. As I just now told you, I am a poor man, and poor men cannot afford such luxuries as hearts." " Yet poor men have them," says the girl in a little low stifled tone. " And — and girls have them too ! " There is a long, long silence. To Curzon it seems as if the whole world has undergone a strange, wild upheaval. 8 114 ^ UTILE REPEL. What had she meant — what? Her words! Her words meant something, but her looks, her eyes, oh, how much more ihey meant ! And yet to listen to her — to believe — he, her guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress ! Oh ! no. Impossible. *' So much the worse for the poor men," says he deliber- ately. There is no mistaking his meaning. Perpetua makes a little rapid movement towards him — an almost impercep- tible one. Did she raise her hands as if to hold them out to him ? If so, it is so slight a gesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he does not see it. " It is late," says Perpetua a moment afterwards. " I must go and dress for dinner." Her eyes are down now. She looks pale and shamed. ** You have nothing to say, then ? " asks the professor, compelling himself to the question. "About what? " "Hardinge." , The girl turns a white face to his. " Will yoti then compel me to marry him ? " says she. " Am I " — faintly — " nothing to you ? Nothing " She seems to fade back from him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow of the corner beyond. Curzon makes a step towards her. At this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a man — evidently a professional man — advances into the room. A LITTLE REBEL. it5 "Sir Thaddeus," begins he, in a slow, measured way. ' The professor stops dead sliort. Even Perpetua looks amazed. ? " I regret to be tlie messenger of bad news, sir," says the solemn man in black. ** They told me I should find you here. I have to tell you, Sir Thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented Sir Hastings is dead.'' The solemn man spread his hands abroad. Xl6 A UTILE REBEL, CHAPTER XVI. * Till the secret be secret no more In the light of one hour as it flies, He the hour as of suns that expire Or suns that rise.'' It is quite a month later. August, hot and sunny, is reign- ing with quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing full well that the end of the summer is nigh. The air is stifling; up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the lat( flowers. Perpetiia moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks in lier soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock. There they rest, a spot of blood color upon their white ground. , Lady Barings on the deatli of her elder brother, had left town for the seclusion of her country home, carrying Per- petua with lier. She had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed (before Sir Hastings' death) that Thaddeus was in love with the young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, liad not suffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having now become the head of the family. Perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansics, looked at them, and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the gardens. A whole loyi^ month and not one word from him ! Are his social duties now so numer- A LITTLE REBEL. "7 oils that he has forgotten he has a ward? "Well," em- phatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white hat, ^^ some people have strange views about duty." She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to turn. " They told me you were here," says the professor,coming up with her. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of having been severely looked after — that Perpetua feels at home with him at once. " I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month, isn't it ? " " Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks cool." It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occu- pies the back of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward. " Perpetua ! " says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned. " I have come. I could not come sooner, and I would not write. How could I put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?" *' I remember," says she faintly. " And all you said ? " " All you said." '* I said nothing. I did not dare. Then I was too poor a man, too insignificant to dare to lay bare to you the thoughts, the fears, the hopes that were killing me." " Nothing ! " echoes she. " Have you then forgotten ? " She raises her head, and casts at him a swift, but burning lis A LIITLE REFyEL. glance. ** Was it nothing ? You came to plead your friend's cause, I think. Surely that was something? I thought it a great deal. And what was it you said of Mr. Hardinge ? Ah ! I have forgotten that, but I know how you extolled him — praised him to the skies — recommended him to me as a desirable suitor." She makes an impatient movement, as if to shake something from her. " Why have you come to-day ? " asks she. " To plead his cai'se afresh?" " Not his— to-day." '* Whose then ? Another suitor, maybe ? It seems I have more than even I dreamt of." ** I do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says Curzon, perplexed by her manner. Some hope had been in his heart in his journey to her, but now it dies. There is little love truly in her small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips. •' I am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug, "/know what I mean always. And as I tell you, if you have come here to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another of your friends who wishes to marry me, why I beg you to save yourself the trouble. Even the country does not save me from suitors. I can make my choice from many, and when I do want to marry, I shall choose for myself." ** Still— if you would permit me to name this one," begins Curzon, very hum^bly, *' it can do you no harm to hear of him. And it all lies in your own power. You can, if you will, say yes, or " He pauses. The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. I A UTTIE l^EBEL. tig M ♦ " Or no, supplies she calmly. " True ! You," with a half defiant, half saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control one altogether." *' I don't think I ever controlled you, Perpetua." « N — o ! Perhaps not. But then you tried to. That's worse." " Do you forbid me then to lay before you — this name — • that I ? " " I have told you," says she, " that I can find a name for myself." *' You forbid me to speak," says he slowly. "7 forbid ! A ward forbid her guardian ! I should be afraid ! " says she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him. " You trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and with uncontrolled despair. " I thought — I believed — I was mad q.\\o\\^\ to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that I was something more than a mere guardian to you." " More than that. That seems to be a Herculean rela- tion. What more would you be ? " ** I am no longer that, at all events." " What ! " cries she, flushing deeply. " You — vou give me up " " It is you who give me up." " You say you will no longer be my guardian ! " She seems struck with amazement at this declaration on his part. She had not believed him when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. " But you cannot," says she. ** You have promised. Papa said you were to take care of me." I20 A LITTLE REBEL. " Your father did not know." " He did. He said you were the one man in all the world he could trust." " Impossible," says the professor. " A — lover — cannot be a guardian ! " His voice has sunk to a whisper. He turns away, and makes a step towards the door. " You are going," cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for tears, that is still strongly allied to anger. " You would leave me. Vou will be no longer my guardian. Ah ! was I not right? Did 1 not tell you you were in a hurry to get rid of me ? " This most unfair accusation rouses the professor to ex- treme wrath. He turns round and faces her like an enraged lion. '' You are a child," says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman resentful. " It is folly to argue with you." " A child ! What are you then ? " cries she tremu- lously. *' A fool ! " furiously. " I was given my cue, I would not take it. You told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not on any account be closer to me. That should have been clear to me, yet, like an idiot, I hoped against hope. I took false courage from each smile of yours, each glance, each word. There ! Once I leave you now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with my will, meet again. You say you have had suitors since you came down here. You hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you wished to marry. So be it. Mention it to Gwendoline — to any one you like, but not to me." A LITTLE REBEL, 121 all the -cannot tx. He asperate . ''Yoii i.irdian. re in a to ex- ike an ) make tremu- would to be oser to ike an ; from rhere ! rill be ou say You m you line — He strides towards the doorway. He has almost turned the corner. ** Thaddeus " cries a small, but frantic voice. If dying he would hear that and turn. She is holding out her hands to him, the tears are running down her lovely cheeks. ** It is to you — to you I would tell his name," sobs she, as he returns slowly, unwillingly, but surely ^ to her. " To you alone." " To me ! Go on," says Curzon ; " let me hear it. What is the name of this man you want to marry ? " " Thaddeus Curzon ! " says she, covering her face with her hands, and, indeed, it is only when she feels his arms round her, and his heart beating against hers, that she so far recovers herself as to be able to add, " And a hideous name it is, too ! " But this last little firework does no harm. Curzon is too ecstatically happy to take notice of her small imperti- nence. THE END. t ' <• ELY or GUGUMBEIt AND ROSES. *ADE BY W. A. DYER & CO., MONTREAL, is .1 delightfully fragrant Toilet article. Removes freckles and sun- burn, and renders chapped and rough skin, alicr one application, smooth and i)leasant. No Toilet-table \a complete without a tube of Dyer's Jelly of Cucumber and Roses. Sold by all Druggists. Agents for IJnlted States— CASWKLIi, M ASSE Y & CO., New York & Newport. T eeth iMJke P earl s ! s A COMMON EXPRESSION. The Way to obtain it, use Dyer's Arnicated Tooth Paste, fragrant and delicious. Try it. Druggists keep it. HIT. A. 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