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 THE 
 
 PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS.
 
 Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/professorhisdaug01thom
 
 THE 
 
 PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. xMEREDITH THOMAS 
 
 ' Who shall set a limit to the direful consequences that may follow upon one 
 false step ! No life is absolutely by itself ; it forms the centre of others that 
 radiate from it like the spokes of a wheel, and that have to bear— so pitiless 
 is Fate— their share of the penalties engendered by its weaknesses and follies. 
 Here is food for thoug-ht.'— i<'rora the German. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 REMINGTON AND CO 
 134, New Bond Street, W. 
 
 1883. 
 
 \^All Rights Reserved.^
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 ^.1 
 
 ^ 
 -» 
 
 4 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE 
 
 PROFESSOR AND HIS DxlUGHTERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the year 18 — _, the holder of the Professorship 
 of Greek Literature in. the great Northern Univer- 
 sity of resigned his appointment. The reasons 
 
 that governed this momentous step — for Professor 
 Hewitson was devoted to the task of expounding 
 the works of the great writers of the past — were 
 simple. He had lately married, and his health had 
 suffered by his unremitting attention to his duties. 
 It was with a sigh that he sent in his resignation ; 
 and it was with extreme grief, only tempered by 
 his sense of happiness in having found a congenial 
 partner for life, that he took leave of his friends and 
 pupils, to whom he had endeared himself by his 
 
 1—2
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 unpretending scholarship and his exceeding kindli- 
 ness of disposition. 
 
 The Professor (as it is proposed to call him in the 
 following pages) was in person a tall, gaunt man, 
 though, owing to his having contracted a habit of 
 stooping, he did not look his height. He was not 
 a well-made man — no sculptor would have dreamed 
 of taking him as a model for an Adonis or an 
 Apollo ; for his chest was insufficiently developed, 
 and his arms and legs were abnormally long, though 
 probably these defects seemed greater than they 
 really were from the roundness of his back and 
 shoulders. 
 
 His face, however, made up for the want of grace 
 in his limbs. The features were regular and full 
 of intellectual power: the forehead high, with deep 
 lines traversing it ; the eyes dim and weak from 
 intense study, and the mouth and chin well-shaped, 
 though to a physiognomist they would have be- 
 tokened some irresolution of character. About the 
 whole there was, curiously enough in the case of a 
 man whose life had been eminently even and 
 uneventful, an air of weariness — almost sadness — 
 that evoked a feeling of pitiful interest in the 
 observer.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 5 
 
 Well acquainted as he was with the history of 
 the ancient world, he was as simple as a child in 
 his knowledge of the ways of the world in which 
 he lived. He could argue by the hour on any 
 point connected with Greek or Roman history, 
 giving his opinions with a directness and a bold- 
 ness that arose from a perfect acquaintance with 
 his subject; while the most feminine mind could 
 pose him on any topic of interest that was then, 
 stirring the public mind. 
 
 In political and religious discussions, he took no 
 part. He was satisfied that the English Constitu- 
 tion was as nearly perfect as any human institution 
 can hope to be, and he cared little whether Conser- 
 vatives or Liberals held power, so long as the 
 Constitution remained as it was. His religion was 
 of that simple yet effective kind that draws no 
 distinction between High Church or Low Church, 
 believing that it is a true and honest fear of God 
 rather than the practice of any particular form of 
 worship that leads to salvation. 
 
 For eight-and-thirty years he had lived a life of 
 hard study, seldom going into society, and then 
 only under compulsion. He had never been in love 
 — indeed,, he rather shrank from the company of
 
 6 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 young ladies, who in this matter-of-fact age startle 
 shy men with their exceedingly frank manners. 
 He seemed to be settling down into a life of con- 
 firmed bachelorhood, when Fortune threw him into 
 the way of a young lady whose disposition soon 
 made an impression on his heart. 
 
 Miss Rhys was five-and-twenty, with a pleasing 
 face, on which good-nature was written in the most 
 legible characters. She was rather reserved in her 
 manner towards strangers, but when they interested 
 her, she became animated and entered with spirit 
 into the conversation. Probably, the fact that she 
 had lately become an orphan first drew the Pro- 
 fessor towards her ; for though he had lost hi s own 
 parents when too young to miss them, yet he could 
 thoroughly understand the deep feeling of utter 
 loneliness that must exist in the human heart when 
 those we have loved and known so well have 
 departed from amongst us. 
 
 Miss Khys appreciated the kindly spirit shown 
 towards her by this tall, bony, middle-aged man ; 
 and it is not to be wondered at that an acquaint- 
 ance begun so happily should soon develop into 
 love. It was a long time before the Professor ven- 
 tured to tell the lady what she with true feminine
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 7 
 
 instinct had already discovered ; for he thought 
 that he was too many years her senior, and that his 
 mode of life would hardly realize the anticipations 
 of happiness which every girl naturally forms in 
 her mind as belonging to the married state. He 
 ventured, however, at last, and was rewarded for 
 his courage. 
 
 Yes; at thirty- eight, life became suddenly to him 
 a thing of inexpressible happiness, such as no philo- 
 sopher of old had ever been able to picture. ]!iOve, 
 like the falling dew from heaven, came with its fer- 
 tilizing power, and entered into his soul, and there 
 sprang up a new man. Was there not something 
 better worth living for than to rake about among 
 the works of dead men, in the hope of gleaning 
 some new rule of conduct, some new maxim of 
 philosophy ? Was not life robbed of half its value 
 when passed in poring over old books until the eye 
 grew dim and the head throbbed ? Was it not a 
 positive waste of the most precious of the gifts of 
 God? 
 
 These and such-like questions, occurring to the 
 Professor after his proflfer of love had been accepted, 
 were very naturally answered in the affirmative. He 
 saw a new life opening to him, which he fondly be-
 
 8 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 lieved was going to be one of unclouded happiness, 
 and his spirits accordingly became overcharged with 
 
 joy. 
 
 The following letter, written to his old college 
 friend Phillips, who was the only person with whom 
 the Professor corresponded besides an only sister, 
 will show the state of his mind at this time : 
 
 ' My deak Friend, 
 
 *I have news of the utmost importance to 
 communicate to you. You will be surprised, I know, 
 and may possibly think I have been foolish ; for I 
 am aware that you are a confirmed misogynist. And 
 yet I feel sure that when you make the lady's ac- 
 quaintance you will praise me for selecting her to 
 be my wife. Yes, my dear friend, I am shortly to 
 be married — and to such a paragon among women ! 
 She is most domesticated, is accomplished and in- 
 tellectual, besides being well dowered with that 
 grace of form and feature which her sex hold in 
 such esteem. If you could but see her — Ah ! you 
 shake your head and recall the old maxim which 
 denies to a lover the capacity for detecting blemishes 
 in the person of his mistress. Well, well, j'OU shall 
 remain in your incredulity until you see her, and
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 9 
 
 then if you do not forswear your principles and fall 
 in love with all womankind, I am no true prophet. 
 Forgive me for being so discursive on this matter, 
 but my joy is so intense that I can only relieve 
 myself by opening my heart fully to you. 
 ' Believe me, my dear friend, 
 
 ' Ever faithfully yours, 
 
 ' Wm. Hewitson. 
 ' P.S. — By-the-bye, I have laid aside my work for 
 the present.' 
 
 The work referred to in the postscript was a 
 Commentary on the Greek Tragic Writers, which, 
 after long meditation, the Professor had lately be- 
 gun to write. It was to be a work which should 
 be valuable not only to the student on account of 
 its scholarship, but also to the general reader as 
 showing the rise of that great branch of the drama 
 to which our own country afterwards contributed a 
 writer, certainly inferior to none of his great classic 
 predecessors. This was now laid aside; for the 
 Professor found himself unable to bring his mind 
 to bear upon the task while his heart was so agitated 
 by the happy result of his suit. 
 
 There being no necessity for a long engagement, 
 the marriage was fixed for an early date, when the
 
 10 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Professor would be able to take a short holiday. 
 DuriDg the few weeks that intervened, he was very 
 constant in his attendance upon his lady, and dis- 
 played all the ardour of an impassioned lover, re- 
 strained within the bounds of strict decorum by the 
 gravity that attaches to eight-and- thirty years. 
 
 How different was his behaviour from that of 
 most lovers, who seem to think that their love will 
 not be estimated at its true value unless they flaunt 
 it in the face of the public ! Love, when it loses its 
 private character, becomes a mere travestie of itself, 
 and degenerates into brutality ! 
 
 The Professor was never guilty of this prostitu- 
 tion of the divine passion. In his public walks 
 with Miss Rhys, he observed the strictest etiquette. 
 He offered his arm ceremoniously, was careful that 
 she should have the wall, and walked so discreetly 
 that no one would have taken them for a pair of 
 lovers. He had never become tainted with the 
 modern doctrine of perfect equality between the 
 sexes, which seems to mean that a man may say 
 what he pleases to a woman, without offending her 
 dignity or incurring her dislike. He, on the con- 
 trary, displayed always that tender chivalry of 
 manner that recognises in woman a weaker nature
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 11 
 
 which a man is bound to respect. The Professor 
 would very likely have given offence to most women 
 by adopting this manner, which necessarily implies 
 a certain superiority in the male sex ; but Miss Rhys 
 readily acquiesced in the implication, and thought 
 her lover a marvel of learning and condescension. 
 She looked up to him as a being of a far higher 
 nature than her own, and accepted his love as a 
 favour which her love could but inadequately repay. 
 
 Never did a couple begin their wedded life under 
 more hopeful conditions than did the Professor 
 and his bride on that bright May morning when the 
 Church formally joined them together as man and 
 wife and invoked the blessing of God upon their 
 union. 
 
 How many men and women start upon their 
 matrimonial career under the idea that their love 
 will be just the same until the final parting— never 
 growing weaker, never knowing any change — and 
 find too late that they have miscalculated ! A true 
 union implies mutual love, mutual forbearance, 
 mutual unselfishness ; without these, constantly ex- 
 erted, the fire that burnt before the altar will soon 
 dicker and go out. 
 
 The Professor and his wife, then, started upon
 
 12 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 that rugged path, the matrimonial, well equipped to 
 meet all possible difficulties ; and all who knew them 
 confidently predicted that they would reach the 
 goal hand in hand as they went forth. 
 
 Six months of undiluted happiness passed, when 
 the Professor fell ill. An illness of a dangerous cha- 
 racter laid its malignant hand upon him, and his 
 constitution was taxed to the utmost to fight against 
 it. The doctors ascribed its origin to the severity 
 of his studies, which he had resumed with all his 
 former ardour since the honeymoon had ended, and 
 recommended him on his recovery to resign his 
 professorship. 
 
 This, as may be imagined^ was a step which he 
 felt very unwilling to take; but when his wife 
 added her entreaty to the doctors' advice, he sighed, 
 and sent in his resignation. 
 
 There were tears in his eyes as he bade good-bye 
 to friends and pupils, before taking his departure. 
 The town had charms for him which probably few 
 besides him felt. It was not picturesque, but 
 almost every spot was associated in his mind with 
 some event which would have seemed trivial to 
 other men, but which to him had been pregnant 
 with deep consequences.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 13 
 
 Here, he had first planned his book on the Greek 
 Tragic Poets ; there, he had shaken his friend 
 Phillips's hand when the latter started for London 
 to make his fortune ; and there again, he had learnt 
 from a few chance words, dropped by his present 
 wife, that she had a liking for him. 
 
 Ah, well ! It was no good reflecting on the past. 
 The future, with his wife by his side, was sure to be 
 bright and happy ; and so, with a heart in which dif- 
 ferent emotions were struggling, the Professor turned 
 his back upon his old home.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Among the numerous spots in Wales celebrated for 
 their picturesque beauty, there is one in a northern 
 county which has only lately become known, but 
 which is visited yearly by increasing numbers of 
 strangers. These people invade the district every 
 summer, and bring the civilizing instincts of Bir- 
 mingham and Manchester to bear upon the uncouth 
 natives. They pay their way with very excellent 
 English money, and treat the gentle Welsh folks 
 with that air of superiority which sits so naturally 
 upon them. 
 
 If they speak with some contempt of a language 
 which to them is a barbarous conglomeration of 
 consonants — a language which Welshmen fondly 
 hold to be that in which Adam and Eve conversed 
 in Paradise — it is only because they recognise the 
 greater utility of the tongue in which they utter 
 tbeir own graceful sentiments. They patronize, in
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 15 
 
 the lordly manner so becoming to the highly edu- 
 cated cotton-spinner or fancy-goods manufacturer, 
 the humble people into whose midst they are for 
 the time being thrown, and they speedily effect a 
 radical change in their natures. 
 
 The ignorant natives are soon taught the value of 
 money, and accordingly discontinue those kindly 
 offices that they were accustomed to perform for 
 one another with no thought of payment. The 
 excellent doctrine of equality is eagerly accepted, 
 and they cease touching their hats to the gentry. 
 Thus, thanks to the teaching of these welcome 
 strangers, a noble spirit of independence and a love 
 of wealth is fostered in the place of the old-fashioned 
 virtues of comradeship and humility. 
 
 But though the natures and the customs of the 
 people are gradually changing, the spot itself, in 
 spite of those signs of civilization, a railway and a 
 bridge, is much the same in appearance as it was 
 fifty years ago. Nature, at any rate, is not infected 
 with the Radical notions of our time. 
 
 Imagine two ranges of mountains rising proudly 
 up from the sea-coast, and gradually verging towards 
 each other as they proceed inland. Between them 
 flows a broad tidal river, forming an estuary to the
 
 16 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 sea. The land lying adjacent to the river is under 
 cultivation, and small farm-houses and country resi- 
 dences are pretty numerous, while here and there a 
 tiny village, made up of half a dozen small shops 
 and as many chapels, may be observed by the side 
 of the uneven turnpike road. The principal town — 
 which is believed also to be the capital of the 
 county, though one hardly dares to give it that 
 high-sounding title — is situated at the head of the 
 valley; and at the other end, facing the sea, is the 
 town made famous by the people of fashion from 
 Manchester and Birmingham. Every rood of ground 
 on the mountain-slopes and tableland that will grow 
 a crop of oats is cultivated ; if it be too sterile, or 
 covered with great boulders that have been there 
 from time immemorial, it is either planted witli 
 hardy larch trees, or is used for grazing sheep and 
 cattle. Standing, on a clear summer's day, with 
 your back to the sea, and looking up the valley, you 
 behold the two ridges runninor with irrecjular out- 
 line on either side, and gradually diminishing in 
 perspective until in the distance they seem to meet 
 and fade away in the horizon ; while at your feet 
 runs the broad river, looking more like an inland 
 lake, so smooth and placid is its surface, and re-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 17 
 
 fleeting thereon the mighty forms of the encompass- 
 ing hills. Such is the spot which has been called 
 the Switzerland of Wales. 
 
 About half-way up the valley, by the side of the 
 high-road, stands a cottage, with a small garden in 
 front, and a background of oak trees, through 
 which is a narrow track leading to the river. 
 Along the east side of the cottage, a little mountain 
 torrent rushes from under the bridge supporting the 
 high-road, with a fury that tells of a long down- 
 ward journey, and, after threatening an assault upon 
 the foundation of the building, darts off until it 
 merges its pure tasteless stream in the brackish 
 waters of its greater brother. The house itself 
 is picturesquely embowered in Virginian creeper 
 — assuming in the autumn a grand blood-red 
 tint — which grows so thickly and abundantly 
 that only the door, the windows^ and the top 
 part of the gable are visible from the high- 
 road. 
 
 It was to this cottage, forming part of a small 
 property belonging to his wife^ that the Professor 
 repaired after quitting the town in which so man}^ 
 years of his life had been spent. He wanted a quiet 
 spot, with a bracing atmosphere, where he could 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 lead a quiet existence and finish the great work 
 upon which he was engaged. 
 
 Though he lacked any knowledge of the language 
 and habits of the people among whom his lot was 
 now cast, he did not despair of quickly getting on 
 good terms with them ; for he held that gentleness 
 of disposition and kindness of action are ready pass- 
 ports into the hearts of all men. 
 
 He soon found that he had judged rightly ; for 
 the people, as they became familiar with him, 
 learned first to respect and then to love him. He 
 would call upon the old folks, and talk on subjects 
 interesting to them — that is, to those of them who 
 could understand his English; for he soon discovered 
 that a knowledge of Welsh was not to be acquired 
 in a day. He was never above accepting from them 
 their homely hospitality ; and the hardy, good- 
 tempered little children were his especial favourites. 
 When meeting the old women on the road, dressed 
 in those conical hats which the younger generation 
 has discarded, he would acknowledge their curt- 
 sies with a smile and a nod. Occasionally, when 
 they were well known to him, he would venture 
 upon some short Welsh phrase of greeting, which 
 was received with none the less pleasure because it
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 19 
 
 was a difficult matter to make out its exact mean- 
 ing. Knowing the demoralizing effect that indis- 
 criminating charity has upon people, he assisted 
 them with money, or more frequently with small 
 luxuries, only when illness or some disheartening 
 calamity had befallen them. 
 
 It was interesting to see the honest gratitude 
 beaming in the face of some poor sick woman as she 
 took his hand in hers, and said, with simple earnest- 
 ness : ' Indeed, sir, you are a good one !' 
 
 There was nothing hypocritical in his acts of 
 kindness ; he did not do them for effect, or to gain 
 favour, but from a genuine liking for the people 
 themselves. 
 
 He found them good-natured and courteous, 
 somewhat prone to anger, but quick to forgive. 
 They were laborious, and could be trusted to do any 
 work allotted to them without superintendence — 
 that is to say, any work they had been accustomed 
 to, for they were slow in learning anything new. 
 They were frugal in their habits, and, having a 
 wholesome dread of becoming a charge upon the 
 parish, managed to put by something from their 
 earnings to meet the proverbial rainy day. Crime 
 was unknown ; a case of murder had not occurred 
 
 9 9
 
 20 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and a 
 stranger might have left his purse exposed on the 
 high-road without fear that it would be stolen. 
 Those who could afford it were not averse to an 
 occasional glass of beer at the Halfway House — an 
 inn mainly dependent for its existence upon the 
 passing Saxon invader — but they were too fearful 
 of public opinion and too chary of their money ever 
 to develop into drunkards. Their houses were gene- 
 rally very neat and clean ; and there were evidences 
 of taste in the way in which the few ornaments 
 they possessed were arranged so as to show to the 
 best advantaoje. Their children were well-clothed 
 and cared for, in spite of the fact that^ owing to 
 early marriages, children were usually numerous ; 
 but then, fortunately, milk and potatoes was not a 
 very expensive diet. 
 
 In the matter of their pastimes they were some- 
 what circumscribed. Ocasionally they were visited 
 by a travelling circus, when they brought forth 
 their hoarded shillings for a peep at the extra- 
 ordinary animals, whose counterfeit presentments 
 were painted in gorgeous colours^ and with no little 
 absence of artistic talent, on the outside ; but beyond 
 this, there was a plentiful lack of any kind of
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 21 
 
 amusement. This was not of much consequence, 
 however, for they were a people who loved to take 
 their pleasure sadly, and found it in droning forth 
 lugubrious hymns at their favourite chapels. To 
 sum up, they were peaceful, law-abiding, desirable 
 citizens, with absolutely no vice in them, whose 
 principal object in life was to lead a quiet and coni- 
 fortable existence, and to save enough money to 
 enable their children to begin life under greater 
 advantages than they had themselves enjoyed. 
 With them, as has been stated, the Professor speedily 
 grew on the best terms, and his figure, as he paced 
 alono^ the road, soon ceased to have the attraction 
 of novelty for the inmates of the cottages. 
 
 It was his custom to take a lengthy walk on fine 
 mornings aloncr the hisrh-road in order to collect his 
 
 O o o 
 
 thoughts for the day's work ; and then, on his 
 return, to retire to his study and devote himself to 
 his great work. In these excursions he was gene- 
 rally attended by a very sagacious but undeniably 
 ugl}^ little dog called Pip, which name the Professor 
 endearingly lengthened into Pipperipip. 
 
 Some years before, as the Professor was taking a 
 
 short walk in the environs of , he had beheld 
 
 the spectacle of a little white cur undergoing the
 
 22 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 unpleasant experience of being chivied by a 
 number of ragged urchins from the town. The dog 
 looked pitiably round for protection from the 
 shower of stones that were falling about him, and 
 doubtless perceiving in the Professor's face a look 
 of humanity quite absent from the faces of his 
 persecutors, ran to him and crouched imploringly at 
 his feet. There is something in the pleading of a 
 dumb animal that awakens more sympathy in a 
 tender heart than even the pleadings of a fellow- 
 man, the reason being perhaps that there can be 
 no doubt of the sincerity of the appeal. At all 
 events, the Professor not only shielded the poor 
 little cur from present harm_, but carried it home 
 wdth him, and, giving it the name of Pip, raised it 
 to the dignity of a companion. 
 
 Pip possessed one virtue that always recommends 
 a dog to women ; his nature was extremely pacific. 
 He barked occasionally at strangers, as though to 
 suggest that his longing to bite was with the 
 greatest difficulty restrained ; but if they showed 
 any disposition to retaliate, his distrust changed 
 at once into a pretence of the most engaging friend- 
 ship. Towards cats and hens and other animals 
 generally ill-treated by his species, he showed an 
 
 J
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 23 
 
 aversion which some people might have been led to 
 term a positive dread. 
 
 On any dry morning in the week, the two friends 
 — the man and the dog — might have been seen 
 journeying together along the high-road. While 
 the Professor, with his head bent towards the 
 ground in deep thought, walked onwards with slow 
 and deliberate steps, Pip trotted by his side with 
 his face also bent towards the earth, as though he 
 too were meditating upon the production of some 
 grand work that should startle the canine world. 
 The Professor had a heavy blackthorn stick in his 
 hand, which he usually carried behind his back, 
 except when, wanting an idea that perversely re- 
 fused to come at his bidding, he rapped it once or 
 twice vigorously on the ground. He was rather a 
 queer figure to meet on the road, as he tramped 
 along unconscious of the world around him, with his 
 clothes all awry and his long locks floating in the wind, 
 and possibly a stranger would have set him down 
 as an eccentric person who ought not to be trusted to 
 go about by himself But he was too well known to 
 the villagers to excite any unworthy suspicions of this 
 kind, and his idiosyncrasies were accepted as peculiar 
 to men of a high and uncommon order of intellect.
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 A YEAR and a half had passed since the marriage 
 of Miss Rhys and the Professor, when an interesting 
 event happened. A daughter was born to them. 
 
 The Professor received the news with weli-dis- 
 sembled calmness, for he felt that it would injure 
 his dignity as a father if he exhibited his satisfaction 
 too openly in the face of the domestics. But his 
 heart pulsated strongly with joy and hope^oy for 
 the present, and hope for the future. 
 
 Since his marriage he had yearned for a child; 
 for a child's love is a natural complement to a wife's 
 love, without which the latter is incomplete. There 
 seemed to him to be a certain void in the house, 
 which could only be filled by a child''s laughter 
 and lively prattle. And now his pra3^ers had been 
 heard. 
 
 The Professor began to speculate at once upon the 
 way in which the little stranger should be brought
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 25 
 
 up. That it was not a boy was a pity in one sense, 
 because girls could not be expected to take any 
 great interest in the study of Latin and Greek ; and 
 indeed, perhaps it was better that they should not, 
 for learned women were intolerable. But, on the 
 other hand, girls were more amenable to discipline, 
 and seemed to be capable of a purer affection towards 
 their parents — their fathers especially — than boj^s. 
 Besides, he had been so accustomed to boys; their 
 ways and manners were perfectly familiar to him. 
 The bringing up of a boy would have been an easy 
 matter, involving no new demand on the intellect ; 
 whereas a girl was a novelty, and, in her case, much 
 philosophic thought would be necessary. As far as 
 he knew at present, the training of a girl offered no 
 great difficulties ; but it was obvious, taking into 
 consideration the weakness of nature and narrowness 
 of mind in woman, that the treatment would be very 
 different from that adopted towards a boy. 
 
 His speculations were interrupted by the entrance 
 of one of the domestics, who informed him that the 
 baby was on view upstairs, and who, with the 
 natural exuberance of her sex, went on to speak in 
 the highest terms of the youthful stranger. The 
 Professor, though perfectly contented with the girl's
 
 26 THE PROFESSOE AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 enthusiasm, which was in a manner reflected upon 
 him, cut her short by remarking that he considered 
 it a little premature to form any decided opinion 
 on the merits of the new arrival, but that he doubted 
 not that in time her praises would prove to be fully 
 deserved. 
 
 The Professor was a perfect novice in the matter 
 of babies, and had prepared himself to see a more 
 intelligent being than the mere little red mass of 
 flesh that reposed in the nurse's arms. He felt 
 disappointed, and perhaps a little vexed when the 
 nurse declared this inanimate little object to be a 
 real beauty and the very image of its father. He 
 turned away with some feeling of disgust, and walked 
 to the side of the bed on which his wife lay. She 
 looked up to him with a smile of welcome ; and he 
 bent down and kissed her pale cheek. She was 
 intensely happy now^ — the consciousness of being a 
 mother had obliterated all remembrance of the 
 pains of childbirth — and she waited for some sym- 
 pathetic words from him. 
 
 'My love,^ he said, *you must be quick and get 
 well again. It makes me sad to see you lying there 
 so helpless.' 
 
 'Do not think of me,' she said. 'T am very
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 27 
 
 happy. But tell me/ she added, ' what do you 
 think of our child V 
 
 The Professor was in a dilemma. He could not 
 confess to his wife his opinion that the baby at 
 present was not a very captivating object, neither 
 could he allow his tongue to utter a false statement. 
 He therefore attempted a middle course. 
 
 ' My dear,' he replied, ' I haven't yet had suffi- 
 cient time to form any decided opinion upon her, 
 but I have no doubt she will prove a little treasure 
 in time — a real gift of the gods. She is asleep now ; 
 when she wakes I must examine her more closely.' 
 
 The baby very appropriately opened her eyes at 
 this moment, and immediately began to test the 
 power of her lungs. The Professor, amazed that 
 such a volume of sound should proceed from so 
 insignificant an object, felt that there were phe- 
 nomena connected with infantile development 
 which deserved the attention of a philosophic 
 mind ; and a feeling of interest in the child was at 
 once aroused within him, which quite subdued his 
 first unfavourable impression. 
 
 After a little coaxing from the nurse, which 
 reminded the Professor how easily the human mind 
 is soothed by the gratification of its desires, the
 
 28 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 child ceased crying, and carried its eyes vacantly 
 round the room. 
 
 ' The power to concentrate its gaze is weak at 
 present,' thought the Professor. ' This is perfectly 
 natural, when every object is equally new.' 
 
 Afterwards, in the quiet of his own study, he 
 became absorbed in the subject of the development 
 of intelligence in a human being ; but its vastness 
 allowed him only to consider it in its more general 
 bearings before it was time for him to retire to rest. 
 A day or two afterwards, as he was sitting by the 
 bedside of his wife, she asked him to suggest a 
 name for the child. 
 
 ' Why not your own — Elizabeth V he asked. 
 ' I should prefer one more uncommon,' she said. 
 * Don't you think it is better for a girl to have a 
 distinguishing name, not one which may confound 
 her with a hundred other girls ?' 
 
 ' It might possibly influence her character,' he 
 replied. * An independent name may go towards 
 the production of an independent character. What 
 say you to Zenobia — a name once borne by a woman 
 of the most vigorous character V 
 
 Mrs. Hewitson pondered a little ; then pro- 
 nounced it to be too characteristic.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 29 
 
 *Just imagine, dear, if the child should be of 
 a weak disposition — and with such a name as 
 Zenobia ! Cannot you think of a name that shall 
 be neutral, neither implying a strong nor a weak 
 nature V 
 
 ' Well,' said her husband, after a pause, ' what do 
 you think of Nausicaa V 
 
 * I'm afraid that's too uncommon, dear.' 
 ' Or Yolumnia V 
 
 * It's pretty, but ' 
 
 * Or Alpha — a short and most appropriate name V 
 
 * Alpha ? Yes, it is pretty ; but why appropriate V 
 The Professor explained. 
 
 'Alpha is the first letter of the Greek alphabet, 
 and this little one is our first child. I like the 
 name very much. It is a capital name — original 
 and expressive.' 
 
 Mrs. Hewitson hardly shared her husband's en- 
 thusiasm. It occurred to her that on the birth of 
 any future children the Professor might insist on 
 following up the idea, and it would look so odd to 
 be surrounded by a bevy of children answering to 
 the letters of the Greek alphabet. Besides, where 
 would it end ? She was about to utter a mild pro- 
 test, when the Professor contuiued :
 
 oO THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ' Surely, my dear, you have no fault to find with 
 the name. It has a most pleasing sound to my 
 ears, besides possessing that distinctive character 
 that should recommend it to you.' 
 
 Mrs. Hewitson, aware that her husband, like 
 many other men, was accustomed to cling to a new 
 idea with the greatest tenacity, hastened to express 
 herself well pleased with the name, and endeavoured 
 like a good wife to persuade herself that she was 
 speaking the truth. 
 
 The baby grew day by day, and with her growth 
 the interest oC the Professor increased, and the 
 notes on the phenomena of development became 
 more copious. 
 
 Her struggle with her nurse when the operation 
 of tubbing was going on was duly chronicled as 
 showing how innate is the spirit of independence 
 in mankind ; while her first faint smile when Pip 
 presented himself before her on his hind-legs, as 
 though anxious to ingratiate himself with the new 
 power, was recorded in its proper place as proving 
 that the sense of humour arising from the incon- 
 gruous is present at a very early stage of childhood. 
 Mrs. Hewitson, though she scarcely approved that 
 her daughter should be taken as a subject for
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 31 
 
 philosophic inquiry, did not venture to remonstrate 
 with her husband ; but the nurse, who had no 
 reverence for anything beyond her personal know- 
 ledge, was deeply indignant, and declared that if 
 she were his wife, she would soon let him know 
 what she thought of his conduct. 
 
 The Professor, proud of his paternity, had already 
 written to his sister, Priscilla, giving her the fullest 
 particulars concerning her little niece ; and he now 
 addressed a letter to his fidiis Achates, Phillips, to 
 let him participate in the good news. 
 
 ' You cannot comprehend, my dear Phillips,' he 
 wrote, 'how delightful is the thought of being a 
 father — of having a little being dependent upon 
 one's self for every need — whose mind is a tabula rasa 
 to receive such impressions only as one may deem 
 most necessary for the proper discharge hereafter of 
 the duties of life ! My darling little girl is a source 
 of wonderful pleasure to me, and I am at this 
 moment as nearly contented with existence as it is 
 possible for mortal man to be. I confess, though, 
 I was not entirely satisfied with her at the first 
 look ; but each day she is becoming more and more 
 a part of me — a tender shoot growing round the 
 parent tree. She has also afforded me very con-
 
 32 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 siderable interest^ for I have been somewhat closely 
 studying the birth of the emotions in her. You are 
 a philosopher, and when you visit me — by-the-bye, 
 when are you coming ? — we will go over my notes 
 together. She is to be called Alpha — her mother 
 was desirous of a distinctive name, and will be 
 proud if you will consent to be her godfather.' 
 
 The days wore on, and Alpha, as she was duly 
 christened, passed through the first year of her 
 existence. With her growth, however, the Pro- 
 fessor's interest in the phenomena of infantile de- 
 velopment lessened, and the note-book was soon 
 laid aside. It was not from any want of material, for 
 the child's emotions were of so complex a nature 
 that the note- book might have been filled and re- 
 filled in recording them ; but the Professor found 
 that tlie task was not a congenial one, and also that 
 it interfered with the progress of his great work. 
 
 Alpha was consequently allowed to express her 
 emotions — much to the delight of her nurse — with- 
 out fear that they would rise up before her in the 
 future ; and of this licence she took the utmost 
 advantage. 
 
 About the time when Alpha had first found the 
 true use of her voice and was delightinor the Pro-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 33 
 
 fessor with her infantile attempts to salute him as 
 her father, a second little girl was born. 
 
 But this time, Fortune, who sometimes takes 
 pleasure in dealing a hard stroke even at the 
 moment when she is bestowing her favours, proved 
 unkind. The child lived, but the mother died. 
 
 The Professor, seated by the bedside, with her 
 cold hand in his, wept bitter tears as he apostro- 
 phized the dead form of her whom he had so fondly 
 loved. 
 
 ' You were everything to me ! You were my 
 hope, and my comforter ! You were the sun that 
 shone upon my life, turning its cheerlessness into a 
 bright happiness ! How shall I live now that you 
 are gone ? How shall our little ones thrive when 
 the guiding hand of the mother has vanished ? 
 You have gone, as the sun goes down at dusk, 
 leaving us struggling in the dark. I need no shelter- 
 ing arm, for I have a man's strength and wisdom ; 
 but who shall protect our Alpha and our Omega V 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 BOOK II 
 
 3—2
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Several years had elapsed since the little church- 
 yard had received the body of the Professor's wife. 
 The stone which loving hands had raised to her 
 memory was already becoming worn by time ; the 
 simple words, speaking eloquently of her many 
 virtues^ were becoming obliterated ; and, with these 
 changes, the grief felt at her untimely death had 
 almost become a thing of the past. Human grief, 
 like everything else in this world, wears itself out 
 in the roll of time ; and what at one period seemed 
 insupportable is at last borne with easy resig- 
 nation. 
 
 The Professor at first felt deepl}' the loss of his 
 wife ; and though he made a firm attempt not to 
 exhibit his sorrow publicly, yet in the privacy of 
 his own chamber the emotions that struggled within 
 his heart could not be kept down. She was the 
 one and only woman for whom he had ever felt the
 
 38 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 pangs of love. He had married her, and had ex- 
 perienced that happiness which springs from a true 
 union ; and suddenly, without a word of warning, 
 the chain of their happiness had snapped, and he 
 was left sorrowing. 
 
 Incapable at any time of directing domestic 
 matters, his helplessness was now further increased 
 by his bereavement ; and, in his extremity, he was 
 compelled to call in the aid of his sister. This he 
 did somewhat reluctantly, for she was a lady of a 
 very decided character, and more capable of inspiring 
 fear than love. She cared little for the opinions of 
 others when they disagreed with her own, and had 
 a capacity for management which included even the 
 management of such poor male creatures as came 
 in her way. 
 
 She was of a masculine temperament, and would 
 doubtless have scoffed at love had she not in her 
 youth experienced on one occasion the power of the 
 tender passion — a circumstance which she never 
 forgot, and which frequently figured in her conver- 
 sation. 
 
 On the strength of that single attachment — which 
 unfortunately came to nothing owing to the timidity 
 of the gentleman, who, in despair of taking so im-
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 39 
 
 pregnable a fortress, had cowardly avoided an attack 
 — she considered herself to be thoroughly versed in all 
 the secret springs, desires, and devices of love, and 
 took every occasion to display the depth of her 
 knowledge. 
 
 For the last fifteen years she had been living 
 alone, and had kept up a desultory correspondence 
 with her brother, which included much good advice 
 and many excellent recipes. His marriage had been 
 a surprise to her; but she had immediately written 
 to tell him that it was no more than she had ex- 
 pected from the tone of his more recent letters, and 
 to remind him that it had once been her fate to 
 love — a fact which she should never forget. She 
 had felt rather offended that the name Alpha was 
 preferred to her own for the Professor's first child, 
 and had withheld for some time the handsome 
 pelisse that she had been working in anticipation of 
 the child's birth ; but after having given it as her 
 solemn opinion that Mrs. Hewitson was a poor- 
 spirited creature and her brother an antiquated 
 booby, she had relented and sent oflf the offering. 
 
 It was natural that the Professor should have 
 applied to her to rule over his household in the place 
 of his dead wife, and she had recognised in the
 
 40 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 clearest manner that it was her dut}^ to oblige hiin. 
 She had laid stress, however, on the fact that he 
 would ever remain under the strongest obligation to 
 her for breaking up her own modest establishment, 
 and had made it a stipulation that she should bring 
 with her a lady who had lived with her for some 
 3'ears as her companion. The Professor had assented 
 readily, and his sister and her companion, who, he 
 found to his satisfaction, was nothing more than his 
 sister's shadow, had in due course made their appear- 
 ance. 
 
 In a very short time the household arrangements 
 were completely altered, and although none of the 
 inmates, with the exception of Miss Priscilla Hewit- 
 son and her friend and companion, Mrs. Mappertree* 
 could honestly express themselves as perfectly satis- 
 fied, yet the regularity and order that reigned in the 
 house were undeniable. Miss Priscilla, one of whose 
 characteristics was an intense hostility to and dis- 
 trust of servants, formulated a code of laws for their 
 government which kept the poor creatures in a con- 
 stant state of worry and dread ; and it was only at 
 the earnest representation of the Professor, who 
 disliked parting with familiar faces, that she con- 
 sented to modify the stringency of her regulations.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND IIIS DAUGHTERS. 41 
 
 She found it a matter of some difficulty at first 
 to drive her severely correct English into Welsh 
 heads, and accordingly set it down to the dulness 
 and stupidity of the people, for whom she professed 
 a great contempt. The only native to whom she 
 showed any kindness was the middle-aged man- 
 servant, who performed the collective duties of butler, 
 gardener, and man-of-all-work ; and he probably 
 won her regard by his studious politeness and 
 attention. This did not, however, prevent her from 
 being intensely shocked when she learnt that most 
 of his sentences were garnished by ungodly Welsh 
 oaths, which in the innocence of her heart she had 
 taken for the very mildest of ejaculations. She 
 expostulated, and he promised amendment ; but 
 the habit had grown too strong to be rooted out, 
 and though she continued her expostulations, he 
 did not discontinue his swearing. 
 
 The two children, on account of their tender 
 years, she left in a great measure to the care of 
 the nurse, reserving the application of her own 
 disciplinary system until she should deem them 
 of an age to profit by it. She could not, however, 
 see without regret the unreasoning fondness with 
 which they were regarded by their father, who
 
 42 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 appeared to have no idea whatever of the absolute 
 necessity of frequent correction in the bringing up 
 of children. But this absurd lenity might well be 
 disregarded until they should come completely 
 under her hands ; and for the present her whole 
 force and vigour were directed towards the estab- 
 lishment of regularity and order in the household 
 arrangements. 
 
 Thus it happened that the Professor, who was 
 content, good easy man, to let his sister rule 
 him so long as he was fed, mended, and generally 
 looked after, and allowed to devote himself to his 
 books and children, came in time to find the memory 
 of his dearly loved wife growing indistinct. This 
 change of feeling was so natural that it requires 
 no apology ; for only those who have never known 
 what grief is can believe in its enduring character. 
 Grief, indeed, for the most part is purely selfish. 
 Certain comforts and pleasures that were enjoyed 
 during the lifetime of the deceased are missed; 
 and as these are supplied by new hands, so does 
 the sense of grief diminish until it disappears.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 One bright spring morning, two little girls were 
 playing together in the garden at the back of the 
 cottage. The sweetness and mildness of the morn- 
 ing had tempted even Mrs. Mappertree out of doors, 
 and she sat within a little arbour at no great 
 distance from the children^ reading that entertaining 
 work ' The Anatomy of Melancholy.' 
 
 This work, indeed, must have been most congenial 
 to the mind of this good woman ; for she was pos- 
 sessed of a very melancholy temperament, and 
 delighted in subjects which healthy people avoid. 
 This unhappy state of mind had been in a great 
 measure occasioned by the humble circumstances 
 into which she had fallen on the death of her hus- 
 band, who, having been of a jovial disposition, had 
 flung away his money during his lifetime with so 
 much spirit that his widow had found herself with 
 barely sufficient means to purchase the necessaries
 
 44 THE PROFESSOR AXD HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 of life. Under these disheartening conditions her 
 naturally low spirits had asserted themselves, and 
 she had fallen an easy prey to the depressing touch 
 of melancholy. 
 
 Her face was habitually clothed with an expres- 
 sion of intense dejection, and her conversation was 
 very liberally strewn with reminiscences of the 
 time when she was seeing better days. She had 
 recommended herself to Miss Hewitson by the 
 patient manner in which she bore rebuffs, snubs, 
 and hard words, and was indeed an excellent 
 medium for restoring that high-handed lady to 
 composure when she had lost her temper and 
 wanted some one to abuse. Mrs. Mappertree was 
 fortunate in having no opinions of her own ; or, if 
 she had any, was wise enough to keep them to her- 
 self, being content to act as a mere echo to her 
 energetic friend. 
 
 She had been the receptacle of many tender 
 confidences from Miss Hewitson on the subject 
 of that ill-starred attachment which has already 
 been alluded to, and, having received them with a 
 proper show of sympathy, had advanced herself 
 greatly in her friend's good opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree, having come to the end of a
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 45 
 
 chapter, laid down her book and turned her glance 
 towards the two children. They were plajdng at 
 hide-and-seek among the oak-trees which divided 
 the garden from the meadow leading to the river. 
 As they ran to and fro, their childish laughter 
 ringing out with the clearness of a peal of bells, a 
 wonderful charm was added to the scene. It was 
 the presence of human happiness. 
 
 But happiness — even the happiness of children — 
 is too rare to be of long continuance, and presently 
 Mrs. Mappertree, who had relapsed into a melan- 
 choly reverie, was aroused by hearing the sounds of 
 discord. 
 
 * I shan't play any more,' cried the younger of the 
 two children, in a querulous voice, to her sister. 
 * You don't play fair at all !' 
 
 •Oh, I do, Meggy !' said the other. 
 
 * No, you don't ! You keep catching me all the 
 time ; and I don't like it, and I won't play !' 
 
 ' You should run faster, Meggy.' 
 
 * T can't, and I shan't, either !' and Meggy stamped 
 her foot to add emphasis to her words. 
 
 This was Mrs. Mappertree's cue for interrupting 
 the discussion. 
 
 'Did I hear a little girl say "shan't"?' she
 
 46 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 exclaimed, in that pompous tone so distasteful to 
 young minds. ' Well, I never ! What will become 
 of you r 
 
 Meggy remained silent, biting her lips, while her 
 sister looked on with great concern. 
 
 * No little girl is loved who says " shan't " and 
 " won't," ' continued Mrs. Mappertree, with a depre- 
 cating motion of her head from side to side. ' All 
 little girls who use bad words and quarrel come to 
 bad ends. Why don^t you try to be a good girl 
 like Alpha ? Go and kiss her, and say you're very, 
 very sorry, and will never do so again.' 
 
 Meggy remained planted to the spot on which 
 she stood, with her brow contracted, and her dark 
 eyes fixed on the ground. Alpha moved towards 
 her. 
 
 'Come, Meggy,' she said, 'give me a kiss. I 
 won't catch you so many times when we play 
 again.' 
 
 But Meggy was determined to be obstinate, and 
 not even the gentle tones of her dear sister and 
 fellow-playmate could make her change her mind. 
 
 ' Well, you are certainly a most obstinate and 
 naughty child,' said Mrs. Mappertree, ' and deserve 
 to be well scolded. Ah, here is your aunt. We
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 47 
 
 shall see what she has to say about your con- 
 duct.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson was shortly informed of what had 
 passed, and bent her eyes sternly upon the little 
 culprit. 
 
 * I never heard of such naughtiness ; it must be 
 checked. Your papa is too indulgent to you, and 
 you think you can be as naughty as you please ; but 
 if he won't punish you, I will. Fetch Dr. Watts !' 
 
 This command was somewhat equivocal, but 
 Meggy knew well enough that it referred to a 
 certain antiquated little volume of poems, much 
 patronized by Miss Priscilla as inculcating the 
 soundest of moral principles in the minds of chil- 
 dren ; and awed by her aunt's severe tones, so 
 different from Mrs. Mappertree's dirge-like remon- 
 strances, she turned and walked towards the house. 
 
 * That girl is becoming unbearable in her temper,' 
 continued Miss Hewitson, * and my brother is so 
 foolish that he will not correct her. But I am 
 determined she shall not have her own way if I can 
 help it ; and if she grows up to be a nuisance to her 
 friends, it shall not be through my fault.' 
 
 ' I am sure it will not,' said Mrs. Mappertree. 
 ' She is indeed a bad child, and no one but you, I
 
 48 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 am sure, can make her any better. I do all I can, 
 but my words seem to have no more effect than so 
 much air. I know when I was a little girl ' 
 
 ' Be quiet !' said Miss Hewitson authoritatively, 
 for the child was returning with Dr. Watts's poems 
 in her hand. 
 
 If there was anything that Meggy really hated_, it 
 was this book, for it always made its appearance 
 when she had done anything wrong. It seemed as 
 if there were no moral crime of which she could be 
 guilty that was not specially reproved in some of 
 Dr. Watts's exasperating lines. Many were the 
 tears she had shed over its pages. 
 
 'Turn to Song XVI., against quarrelling and 
 licrlitino:,' said Miss Hewitson, *and read aloud what 
 it says. Now then !' 
 
 Meggy's fortitude had nearly failed her under 
 this terrible infliction of Dr. Watts, and she began 
 to read in a quavering and disjointed voice : 
 
 * Let dogs delight — to bark and bite, 
 
 For God— hath made — them so ; 
 Let bears and lions— growl and fight, — 
 For 'tis their nature to. 
 
 * But, children, — you should never let 
 
 Such angry — passions — rise ; 
 Your little hands were — never made 
 To tear — ea— each other's eyes.'
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 49 
 
 The last syllable was almost choked by a sob ; 
 but after an interval of silence, in which she vainly 
 hoped her aunt would grant her a respite, she 
 resumed : 
 
 ' Let love — through all — your actions — run, 
 
 And all — (sob) — your words — (sob) — be mild ; 
 Live — (sob) — like ' 
 
 * Hej^day ! What is this V cried a cheerful voice, 
 and quickly looking up through her tears, Meggy 
 beheld her father. She dropped the book in a 
 moment, and rushing to him, clasped her arms round 
 him, and buried her face in his clothes. 
 
 The Professor, guessing from the severe looks of 
 his sister that she was the cause of Meggy's discom- 
 fiture, and knowing from experience that her scold- 
 ings were not always proportionate to the gravity 
 of the offence, said in a kindly voice, as he gently 
 stroked the child's black locks : 
 
 ' Come, little maid, tell me what is the matter. 
 Why are you shedding these dreadful tears V 
 
 * I can tell you, brother, in a very few words,' 
 exclaimed Miss Hewitson, drawing herself up and 
 crossing her hands in front of her as though she 
 were prepared to combat to the death any adverse 
 opinion that he might offer. * Meggy has been 
 
 VOL. T. 4
 
 50 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 allowing her wicked temper to get the better of 
 her, and has been quarrelling "with her sister and 
 using improper language.' 
 
 ' Is this true, my child ?' asked the Professor, in 
 the same mild voice. 
 
 Meggy lifted her head, and fixed her bright eyes 
 on her father's face. 
 
 ' I did get angry, papa, and I am very, very sorry.' 
 
 * Well, well, my child,' said the Professor, taking 
 her up in his arms, ' we will say no more about it. 
 You must try and curb your temper, my darling. 
 You do get angry sometimes, you know, though it 
 is true your fits of anger are of brief duration. 
 Come, go and kiss Alpha, and then run away and 
 resume your play.' 
 
 Meggy obeyed him with alacrity, and she and 
 Alpha quickly disappeared. 
 
 The Professor had drawn a small rusty-looking 
 volume from his pocket, and was walking off to some 
 spot where his reading might proceed without in- 
 terruption, when his steps were arrested by his 
 sister's voice. 
 
 ' I thinkj brother,' she said, ' you should consider 
 what will be the result of your absurd behaviour 
 towards that child.'
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 51 
 
 ' My dear sister,' observed the Professor, turning 
 towards her and placing his finger between the 
 pages of the book to mark his place, ' I am quite at 
 a loss to know what you mean by my absurd be- 
 haviour.' 
 
 ' I mean that you are spoiling the child, and that 
 by your indulgence you are preparing for her a 
 bitter future.' 
 
 ' I really cannot view my conduct in that light,' 
 he replied. ' If you mean that I am not severe 
 with the child, I reply that I look upon severity as 
 a mistake in the education of children.' 
 
 ' Stuff and nonsense ! Children must be moulded 
 into shape when they are young.' 
 
 ' I grant you that, but they are more likely to 
 retain their shape if the moulding process be con- 
 ducted with kindness. We must rather persuade 
 them into goodness, than coerce them.' 
 
 'Your system may answer with some children/ 
 said Miss Hewitson contemptuously ; * but when a 
 child's nature is radically bad, you might just as 
 well try to jump over the moon, as try to persuade 
 her to be good.' 
 
 'You surely cannot wish me to understand that 
 Omega's nature is such a one as you describe ?' 
 
 4—2 
 
 LIBRARf 
 'fNfVFRSlTV m ail
 
 52 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ' I have more opportunity for judging her than you 
 have, brother, and I say positively that she is a pas- 
 sionate, good-for-nothing child ' 
 
 * My dear sister,' interrupted the Professor gravely, 
 ' I think you wrong her.' 
 
 'Do I? Ask Mrs. Mappertree for her opinion. 
 Tell him what you think, Jane !' 
 
 ' I must confess,' said Mrs. Mappertree dolefully, 
 * I cannot help agreeing with my dear friend that 
 the child is very passionate and wilful, and I thick 
 that she requires correction — gentle correction. I 
 am sure when I was a child and lived with my 
 parents at Boodle Hall_, my father never neglected 
 his duty in correcting me, and I have all through 
 life felt the good effects of it. Not that I was a 
 very disobedient child and required much correction, 
 for my father frequently praised my good conduct, 
 and on one occasion gave me a beautiful little 
 cream-coloured pony ' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree was in the full stream of her re- 
 miniscences, and would have proceeded in the same 
 dreamy monotone to give a full and exhaustive 
 account of her happy youth had not Miss Hewit- 
 son given her an energetic command to stop. 
 
 * You are nothing better than a windbag, with
 
 THE PllOFESSOR A2s^D HIS DAUGHTERS. 53 
 
 your ceaseless flow of nonsense. A very bad habit, 
 Jane, and one which I should be glad to see cor- 
 rected.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree sighed heavil}^ and waggled her 
 head to and fro, to express how little she thought 
 she deserved her friend's unkind remark. 
 
 The Professor took up the conversation. 
 
 * My dear sister,' said he, * I do not think the 
 child deserves the bad opinion you have of her. 
 I have always found her very warm-hearted and 
 affectionate.' 
 
 * Oh, well ! I'll say no more, for I see you are 
 determined to find no fault in her. I hope you may 
 be right ' — Miss Priscilla's tone sufficiently indicated 
 her perfect confidence that he was wrong — ^ and 
 that the child may grow up to be a credit to yon. 
 No one will be more delighted than T — and sur- 
 priserl !' 
 
 ' If she were only more like her sister,' murmured 
 Mrs. Mappertree, in a propitiatory tone. 
 
 ' Ah ! no one can wish it more than I do,' ex- 
 claimed Miss Hewitson ; * but there never was a 
 greater contrast between two children. Alpha is a 
 most obedient child, and is always in the same even 
 frame of mind. One knows how to take her at any
 
 54 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 time ; but her sister — why, her humours are as 
 changeable as the da^^s !' 
 
 * She will grow up, you may be sure, a bright 
 happy little woman,' said the Professor; ' for though 
 she may be a little capricious now, age will bring 
 her whatever sedateness may be wanting in her 
 disposition.' 
 
 *I hope you may not be mistaken,' said Miss 
 Hewitson drily, 'though I am inclined to think 
 that Jane and I are as likely to be correct in our 
 estimate of her character as you are.* 
 
 *You may be, my dear sister,' said the Professor, 
 with the most perfect good-humour, ' though I 
 cannot help sajdng I doubt it ; for, believe me, 
 there is only one way of knowing a child's nature, 
 and that is by gaining its confidence. Children 
 must be led, my dear, gently, not dragged. I am of 
 opinion with Terence : 
 
 * Pudore et liberalitate liberos ' 
 
 Well, in plain English, the remark is to the effect 
 that it is better to bind your children to you by a 
 feeling of respect, and by gentleness, than by fear.' 
 
 ' Well, brother, you may bring forward as many 
 quotations as you like, but they shan't make me
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 55 
 
 alter my opinion — which is, I believe, shared by 
 Jane.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree hastened to express her entire 
 agreement with her friend. 
 
 * I don't fashion my rules of conduct,' continued 
 Miss Hewitson severely, ' by what a few old, musty, 
 addle-pated Greeks or Romans may have said— 
 whether their names be Terence, or Pluto, or Jupiter, 
 or any other unchristian names — but by what my 
 plain common-sense dictates.' 
 
 * My dear sister,' exclaimed the Professor, gently 
 but firmly, * there is no need to disparage the great 
 lights of the past. Their aphorisms represent the 
 very finest intellectual gems dug from a hundred 
 fertile soils, and are not to be met in a scofiing 
 spirit. They have borne the test of ages, and are 
 still as true as ever." 
 
 Having given vent in this mild fashion to his 
 feeling of indignation at hearing his favourite 
 authors spoken of in a contemptuous manner, the 
 Professor opened his book at the place marked by 
 his finger, and, readjusting his spectacles, walked 
 away.
 
 CHAPTEH III. 
 
 Miss Prisctlla Hewitson had several very pro- 
 nounced characteristics, which, from the frequency 
 of their display, she probably regarded with no 
 little pride. Her respect for morality was excessive. 
 She inquired very vigorously into the antecedents 
 of her female servants, and engaged none who could 
 not show a blameless character. She objected to 
 followers on principle, holding that love unhinges 
 the minds of young girls, and interferes with the 
 due performance of their work ; but, finding that it 
 was impossible to shut out the all-conquering pas- 
 sion, she granted permission to each girl to invite 
 her lover to the house on one stated evening in the 
 week. 
 
 It was singular that with all this intense morality 
 she should have tolerated the man-servant, Hum- 
 phrey, whose vows of fidelity and promises of 
 marriage had been successively repeated to half the
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 57 
 
 girls in the parish. The key to this inconsistency 
 will probably be found in the fact that, however 
 strictly ladies may view any disregard of virtue in 
 their own sex, when men are concerned they are 
 accustomed to look upon it with mild indifference. 
 Mrs. Mappertree, who was a woman with a pretty 
 taste for scandal, was rather inclined to smile at her 
 friend's very rigid code of morality — especially 
 when the latter insisted upon a certain picture 
 representing a lady searching vainly for her clothes 
 on a river's bank being turned with its face to the 
 wall — but Miss Priscilla suspected her inclination, 
 and read her a fine lecture on her deplorable want 
 of principle. 
 
 Her religious views were of that severe character 
 which makes one doubt whether paradise will be 
 the happy place so often pictured if many of her 
 kind are met with there. The poor children suffered 
 under the infliction of numberless collects, gospels, 
 and hymns, which they were required to learn by 
 heart; and so strict was Miss Hewitson in her 
 notion of the way in which a Sunday should be 
 spent, that they came to regard that day with some- 
 thing approaching to abhorrence. 
 
 To Omega, especially, was it a day of vexation ;
 
 58 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 for her memor}^ was so treacherous that she could 
 never learn her collects correctly. The consequence 
 was that she generally fell into disgrace, which 
 meant, among other things, that she was deprived 
 of one helping of pudding. 
 
 It would be impossible to deny that Miss Hewit- 
 son was a woman of many virtues ; but the fact is 
 her virtues were so accentuated as to be not very 
 far removed from positive faults. Her regard for 
 morality verged on prudery ; her religion trenched 
 on bigotry ; and her manners, even when she in- 
 tended to be kind, were so imperious that everyone 
 avoided her as far as was possible without giving 
 her offence. 
 
 But whatever faults may have been included in 
 the character of Miss Hewitson, her household ar- 
 rangements showed her in the light of a very able 
 administrator. Cleanliness and regularity were 
 insisted upon to such an extent, that even the 
 lethargic housemaid, who occasionally neglected 
 her duties in the double occupation of reading a 
 Welsh Bible and writing letters to her lover, became 
 infected with the same spirit, and devoted her at- 
 tention to her work. 
 
 The family were expected to be down by eight
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 0\) 
 
 o'clock, when the Professor read prayers, his sister 
 carefully placing the book before him ever since 
 the day when he had committed the mistake of 
 reading one of Lucian's dialogues in place of the 
 opening prayer. Indeed, she was always compelled 
 to keep a watchful eye upon him, for his mind was 
 constantly straying from the affairs of this world — 
 in which condition he was capable of the most 
 foolish acts. When breakfast was over, the Pro- 
 fessor retired to his study to devote himself to his 
 self-imposed task, while the two girls were in- 
 structed in the elementary branches of knowledge 
 by Mrs. Mappertree. At two o'clock, the family 
 assembled at dinner — a very homely though 
 comfortable meal of two courses, washed down by 
 some \ery excellent table-beer. The Professor was 
 no wine-drinker — not because he considered it in 
 the least degree improper, but for the excellent 
 reasons that his income was limited and his tastes 
 were simple. ' Luxuries,' he would say, ' are for 
 those who want them ; for those who do not, they 
 are wasteful indulgences.' He, however, occasion- 
 ally accepted a glass of some renowned black- 
 currant wine, which his sister made from a recipe 
 that had been in the family for over a cen-
 
 GO THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 tury. In the afternoon, the Professor took a stroll 
 in the company of his children, and explained to 
 them — though often in terms too abstruse for their 
 
 o 
 
 tender intellects — the wonders of nature and of 
 man. In these delightful walks they were of 
 course accompanied by Pip, who had now reached 
 an age when dogs throw off the wild eccentricities 
 of puppy dom, and assume the grave demeanour 
 so becoming to mature years. Tea followed at six 
 o'clock, between which hour and the hour of 
 supper the family engaged in conversation, or in 
 reading, or in some harmless game of cards. After 
 supper, which was never a heavy meal, prayers 
 were again read by the Professor, candles were 
 brought in, and the household retired to rest. 
 Thus did this simple family pass its days. 
 
 One morning in the early summer, they were all 
 seated round the breakfast-table. The air was 
 so warm that the windows looking into the 
 garden were left open, in order that the sweet 
 mellow perfume of the earth might be wafted into 
 the room. Before their view — though partially 
 hidden by the intervening trees — lay the broad 
 estuary, with the incoming tide rushing swiftly 
 forward to swallow up the last scrap of the yellow
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS; 61 
 
 sand ; while beyond rose the distant range of 
 mighty hills, with their serrated outline showing 
 distinctly against the clear blue sky. 
 
 The Professor had read prayers, after having 
 gis^en his sister a good hunt for his spectacles, 
 which were ultimately discovered in his hand — 
 these spectacles were being constantly lost and as 
 constantly discovered on the Professor's person — 
 and he had seated himself at the foot of the table 
 with a large tome beside him. 
 
 It was a habit of the Professor's to read during 
 his meals ; and, though his sister had tried her 
 utmost to break him of it, declaring it discour- 
 teous to herself and pernicious to his digestion, 
 yet she had failed in all her efforts to make him 
 yield to her wishes. 
 
 ' There is an egg for you, brother,' said Miss 
 Hewitson. 
 
 'Ah ! thank you, my dear sister — and a fine one 
 it is, too,' replied the Professor, as he placed the egg 
 by his side. 
 
 Here the book caught his eye, and being of 
 vastly greater importance than any mere article of 
 food — the mind being naturally superior to the 
 body— he laid his egg aside, and, opening the book
 
 62 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 at a certain chapter, was speedily lost to the 
 world. 
 
 Miss Hewitson viewed this proceeding with 
 much vexation, and, turning to Mrs. Mappertree, 
 said in a loud tone : 
 
 ' 1 wish to goodness the man would leave his 
 rubbishy books until he has finished breakfast. It's 
 positively shameful the way in which he allows the 
 habit to grow upon him. Just touch him on the 
 arm, Jane.' 
 
 The Professor, thus roused, raised his eyes from the 
 page, and regarded his sister with an inquiring look. 
 
 * Your egg is getting cold !' 
 
 ' Ah, so it is. I quite forgot all about it.' 
 'You wouldn't forget if you hadn't that book 
 before you.' 
 
 * Very likely not, my dear sister. If the book is 
 worthy of being read at all, it is worthy of being 
 read with an absorbing attention.' 
 
 He took up the egg and began to crack the 
 shell ; but in the middle of this process, his 
 eyes wandered away to the book. The temptation 
 proving irresistible, the operation was suspended ; 
 his hand remained poised in the air, and the egg 
 was forgotten.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 63 
 
 This obstinacy was more than Miss Hewitson 
 could bear, and, before the Professor could inter- 
 fere, she had snatched the book from the table. 
 
 ' I insist upon your eating your egg before you 
 read a word more !' 
 
 * Very well, my dear,' said the Professor, patiently. 
 ' You shall be obeyed. You see, Meggy,' he con- 
 tinued, turning to his younger daughter with a 
 smile, ' your aunt has only to tell me to do a 
 thing, and I do it at once.* 
 
 Meggy was about to question his immediate 
 obedience, when a look from her aunt checked her. 
 
 * It is a pity,' said Miss Hewitson, in a harsh 
 tone, 'that the child does not take after you in 
 that respect. Besides not being obedient, she takes 
 no pains with what she does. Her hymns were 
 most slovenly learnt this morning, and Jane tells 
 me she cannot get her to do her sums correctly.' 
 
 * And I am sure she could do them if she tried,' 
 said Mrs. Mappertree, shaking her head, ' for she is 
 very quick by nature. But mere quickness is of no 
 use without application. I remember, when I was 
 quite a child, living at Boodle Hall, I had a 
 governess — a Frenchwoman, whose father was an 
 Emigre — said to be of very distinguished parentage,
 
 64 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 for he was a count or a baron — I forget which — 
 though he was then engaged in the menial occupa- 
 tion of a waiter at a small hotel in Golden Square, 
 which mortified him so much that he took a razor, 
 and cut his wife's throat from ear to ear ' 
 
 * Jane !' cried Miss Hewitson severely j ' don't be 
 so horribly ghastly and morbid in your conversa- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' I'm sure,' said Mrs. Mappertree, applying her 
 handkerchief to her eyes, 'I have no wish to make 
 anyone uncomfortable by what I say, but it's per- 
 fectly true. The poor woman was dreadfully cut, 
 and although the doctors stitched ' 
 
 ' Children !' cried Miss Priscilla, * you may go I 
 Omega, please to say grace.' 
 
 All heads were bent as the child repeated a few 
 simple words of thanksgiving. 
 
 * I must insist, Jane,' said Miss Hewitson, after 
 the girls had left the room, * that you do not allow 
 that child to have her own way. My brother is so 
 foolishly occupied with his books ' 
 
 * My dear sister,' cried the Professor, as he stood 
 by the window wiping his glasses with a big red 
 silk bandanna, preparatory to another spell of read- 
 ing, ' if you are a woman of reason — and it is a
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 65 
 
 point for argument whether women have any reason 
 at all — you will understand that that cannot be a 
 foolish occupation which renders us wiser, better, 
 and more self-reliant. Now, let me argue the point 
 with you.' 
 
 ' I have no time to argue points,' said his sister 
 sharply. 
 
 ' Then you should not make assertions.' 
 
 * I should like to know,' she cried, * what good 
 logic and philosophy do for a man.' 
 
 ' They teach him, my dear, to bear with women.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Pray what would you do without 
 women V 
 
 ' I fancy,' said he, ^ we should be ver}'' dirty and 
 very happy, though, to be sure,' he added, with a 
 smile^ 'posterity would suffer by it.' 
 
 ' Why do men seek after women V 
 
 ' Perhaps, because it is in the nature of man to 
 seek after evil.' 
 
 ' Ah, I know better, brother,' said Miss Hewitson, 
 with a sigh. ' It is the omnipotent power of love, 
 that seeks to awaken a responsive ardour. Oh, what 
 a power is love !' 
 
 Miss Priscilla's mind wandered back to tlint 
 period when her own heart had felt the sway of 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 GG THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 that irresistible power, and she sat silent, gazing 
 abstractedly at the pattern of the carpet. 
 
 The Professor meanwhile had cleaned his glasses, 
 and, having enjoyed his little passage of arms with 
 his sister, was marching from the room in high 
 spirits, when the door opened and Humphrey 
 appeared with the post-bag. 
 
 * Ah, Humphrey,' said the Professor, ' a little 
 earlier than usual this morning.' 
 
 'Dhiaoul! I think she is, sir,' 
 ' Hem ! Haven't I cautioned you against the use 
 of that word V said Miss Hewitson severely. 
 
 * Indeed, ma'am, you have,' replied Humphrey, 
 turning his good-humoured face towards her ; ' but 
 Dhia — a — , it will come, though I try my best.' 
 
 ' Don't let me hear it again !' 
 
 ' By Heaven !' cried the Professor, who had been 
 opening his letters, and was now holding the last 
 one in his hand, ' here's a surprise ! What do you 
 think it is ?' 
 
 ' Something very pleasant, I should say, from your 
 face,' answered his sister. 
 
 ' You are right, my dear,' cried the Professor, 
 whose face certainly shone with an unusual radi- 
 ance. 'I have here the pleasantest piece of news I
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 67 
 
 have had for a long time. Phillips is actually 
 coming to stay with us.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed !' exclaimed Miss Hewitson, in a tone 
 suggesting that the news conve3^ed no pleasant 
 anticipations to her. 
 
 ' Yes ; and what is better, he will be here by to- 
 morrow's train. You see, there is no indecision in 
 Phillips's character. He is a man of action, with 
 whom the act promptly follows the thought. You 
 must have everything nice and comfortable for 
 him; for Phillips is an exacting fellow — oh, a 
 terribly exacting fellow !' 
 
 *If he is not pleased with the way things are 
 managed in this house, he can pack up his traps 
 and go. I shall not alter my arrangements for any 
 man.' 
 
 ' Of course not, my dear sister. Phillips, I am 
 sure, will accommodate himself to them. He is 
 indeed a most accommodating fellow — a charming 
 fellow. You will be delighted with him.' 
 
 ' Is he fond of ladies' society ?' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, you have hit upon the woi'st 
 point of his character. He is a misogynist — a 
 woman-hater.' 
 
 ' Oh, and you think I shall be delighted with
 
 C8 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 such a man ! And I dare say he has all sorts of 
 horrible bachelor habits.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I think not— at least they are perfectly 
 harmless. You must like him ; he is so handsome 
 — besides, he's a wonderful scholar.' 
 
 'I detest scholars — men whose imaginations are 
 circumscribed by their books.' 
 
 * Not Phillips's, my dear, I dare swear. If you can 
 overcome his natural disinclination to talk before 
 your sex, you will find lie has a marvellous imagi- 
 nation. He is a genius, my dear sister — nothing 
 less than a genius.' 
 
 The Professor, in sounding the praises of his 
 friend, had spoken with an enthusiasm that showed 
 how deeply the fire of friendship burnt within him. 
 Indeed, it was a maxim with him that no man had 
 extracted his full measure of earthly happiness who 
 had not found for himself a wife and a friend — to 
 these two persons his whole heart should be given. 
 
 Having brought his praises to a climax, the Pro- 
 fessor remained silent for a few moments, and then 
 added : 
 
 ' His coming is an event I hardly dared to 
 expect.' 
 
 ' Ah/ said Mrs. Mappertree dolefully, as she
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 69 
 
 turned from the window, ' I was sure something 
 was going to happen, for I saw a magpie flying 
 overhead yesterday. It is a pity there were not 
 two, for one magpie is a sign of an approaching 
 calamity. I hope your friend may arrive safely.' 
 
 The Professor, fearing to hear any further dismal 
 prognostications from this unfortunate lady, placed 
 his book beneath his arm, and hastily left the 
 room.
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 In spite of the Professor's warm eulogy on his 
 friend's person and mind, it must be confessed that 
 Phillips was a very ordinary mortal. There was 
 nothing in the least heroic about him. His figure 
 was insignificant, being short and stout, and his 
 face was undeniably plain — so plain, indeed, that 
 Miss Priscilla could not help in her own mind 
 likening him to a monkey. Did the Professor really 
 think him handsome ? Who knows ? The eyes of 
 Friendship see only through the heart. 
 
 As for his mind, it never offered any evidence of 
 genius; no mighty truths subtly expressed, no 
 gleams of wit, no heart-pulsating words of passion, 
 ever proceeded from him — only the most common- 
 place expressions. 
 
 It is strange that the Professor should have 
 selected such a man for his bosom friend. * He is 
 the very opposite of m}^ brother,^ said Miss He wit-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 71 
 
 SOD. Perhaps in that very opposileness of character 
 is to be found the explanation. 
 
 He was, moreover, blunt of speech and brusque in 
 manner, though, as is often the case, these were 
 merely safeguards set by nature to watch over one 
 of the kindliest hearts that ever beat — which other- 
 wise would have long ago melted for the woes of 
 mankind. 
 
 His coming made very little difference to the 
 household; for he fell into their habits at once, 
 and gave no trouble. He had only two objection- 
 able qualities. Miss Hewitson allowed ; he avoided 
 the ladies, and filled the house with tobacco 
 smoke. 
 
 The two girls speedily became on the best of 
 terms with him, in spite of his rough address ; for 
 childhood possesses the peculiar faculty of pene- 
 trating through a man^s outward guise, and reading 
 his heart. When not with them, he was with the 
 Professor. 
 
 These two oddly contrasted men, in their deal- 
 ings with each other, had recourse to a pleasant 
 little piece of fiction ; each credited the other with 
 his most cherished idiosyncrasies. Thus, the Pro- 
 fessor credited Phillips with a deep knowledge of
 
 72 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 and reverence for the ancient writers ; while 
 Phillips, iu his turn, credited the Professor with his 
 own thorough acquaintance with the world, and its 
 pleasures and follies. When either started a subject 
 with which he was the better acquainted, the other 
 tacitly submitted his judgment, and was content to 
 accept his friend's opinion without argument. Oc- 
 casionally — for even the best of friends cannot 
 alwaj^s be in perfect harmon}- — a subject was 
 started which, being neutral, led to diversity of 
 opinion. When this was the case, and the dis- 
 cussion was becoming heated, one of the friends 
 would rise and suggest a stroll, this being a 
 recognised hint that the subject should be dropped. 
 The foregoing will explain how it was that these 
 two middle-aged men, whose characteristics were so 
 dissimilar, extracted such pleasure from each other's 
 society. 
 
 When Phillips had taken leave of his friend at 
 the University, he had proceeded to London with 
 the intention of reading for the Bar. Before, how- 
 ever, he had eaten the requisite number of dinners, 
 a rich relative, who had hitherto treated him in a 
 distant manner, took a fancy into his head that 
 Phillips was a man after his own heart, and carried
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 73 
 
 him away. The law was abandoned, and Phillips 
 and his uncle wandered in company over the 
 face of the earth. The uncle, being mortal, at 
 length died, and left Phillips with a handsome 
 fortune and a passionate love of yachting. 
 
 Still, in spite of the advantage that had 
 accrued to him from his association with his de- 
 ceased relative, Phillips looked back with plaintive 
 regret on the old times when he was studying for 
 the law ; for it was one of his most cherished be- 
 liefs that, had he followed that profession, he would 
 have ultimately risen to the Bench. It was a 
 foolish illusion, doubtless, but the effect of it was 
 that he read little else in the papers but that pait 
 dealing with the law, and scrutinized the acts and 
 words of her Majesty's judges with the critical 
 eye of one who would probably have, but for acci- 
 dent, belonged to their body. 
 
 Phillips did not allow many days to slip by 
 before questioning his friend on the subject that 
 he knew lay neaiest to his heart. — the progress of 
 the work. 
 
 They were seated in the Professor's study — a 
 snug little room, with a window looking upon the 
 high-road, which was, however, almost obscured by
 
 74 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 intervening trees. The furniture was simple ; a 
 large old-fashioned escritoire in the centre, a few 
 cane-bottomed chairs here and there, a book case 
 against the wall full to overflowing, and a couple 
 of comfortable armchairs placed on each side of the 
 fireplace, and now occupied by the two friends. It 
 would have been difficult to say whether the room 
 were carpeted or not, from the number of books 
 that lay scattered in disorder on the floor; books 
 mostly of one class, with rusty brown covers and 
 stained pages, disfigured with annotations and 
 emendations. The}'' were never touclied, though 
 Miss Hewitson often chided her brother for allow- 
 ing them to remain in such confusion that it took 
 him on an average half an hour to find an}^ par- 
 ticular book; but he always gave her the same 
 answer : 
 
 ' My books are a part of me ; T must have my 
 own way with them.' 
 
 ' Now, old fellow,' said Phillips, taking his pipe 
 from his mouthy *you must let me know how the 
 work is getting on. I'm very anxious to hear all 
 about it.' 
 
 ' So you shall, my dear Phillips.' 
 
 The Professor had been waiting anxiously for
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 7o 
 
 this allusion to the work, which he fondly believeil 
 must be as dear and full of interest to liis friend 
 as it was to himself. He rose from his chair with 
 a gratified smile, and opening a drawer in the 
 escritoire, produced a thick bundle of manuscript. 
 
 ' Here it is,' he said. 
 
 'What! Is it finished?' asked Phillips, looking 
 up with surprise. 
 
 * Oh no,' replied the Professor cahnly, ' this is not 
 more than a third of it. It will be a bic: work.' 
 
 ' I should think so,' said Phillips, blowing a puft' 
 of smoke across the room. 
 
 ' But here it is as far as it is written,' continued 
 the Professor. 
 
 Phillips took the parcel and weighed it in his 
 hands. 
 
 * Why, it must be close upon six pounds — a good 
 six pounds, I should say ; it will be a heavy work. 
 And this is but a third of it !' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 Phillips added in an undertone, 'And he has been 
 ten years off and on with it.' 
 
 It was without doubt a matter for surprise that 
 in so long a time only a third of the work had been 
 completed, but it was easy of explanation. When-
 
 76 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ever the Professor sat down to write, be found 
 himself compelled after a very few minutes to refer 
 to one of the books that were strewn in such dis- 
 order about him. This necessitated a hunt all over 
 the room, and, when at last the book was found, 
 the Professor felt he could not return it to its 
 vagrant companions vi^ithout having first absorbed 
 its contents from beginning to end. Thus, when 
 the day's work came to be reckoned up, the result 
 proved to be marvellously small. 
 
 'You will be a long time before you finish it,' 
 said Phillips, with a grave look. 
 
 * Oh no, I intend to go at it with spirit,' cried 
 the Professor cheerfully. 'Necessarily, the first 
 part of a work takes a disproportionate space of 
 time in the composition. In two or three years at 
 the most I shall have done.' 
 
 Phillips shook his head doubtfully, and uncon- 
 sciously puffed a quantity of smoke into his friend's 
 face. The Professor, whose lungs were not of first- 
 rate quality, had a fit of coughing, which for some 
 time not even Phillips's kindly smacks upon the 
 back could arrest. 
 
 'I will put my pipe out,' said Phillips apolo- 
 getically.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 77 
 
 ' No, no, I beg of you,' cried the Professor, waving 
 his hand in the air ; 'I am not afraid of a little 
 smoke. What did we do with the manuscript V 
 
 It had fallen to the ground from the table, and 
 lay sprawling like a huge butterfly among the 
 books. Phillips picked it up reverently, and 
 handed it to its author. 
 
 ' I should like to read it,' said Phillips, who would 
 have dared even that undertaking to make his 
 friend an atom happier. 
 
 ' So you shall some day,' cried the Professor, 
 ' when it's in print ; but if, in the meanwhile, 3^ou 
 would care for a sample, I shall be happy to oblige 
 you.' 
 
 ' By all means,' said Phillips. ' It will help to 
 stave off my curiosity, until I can read the whole.' 
 
 The Professor settled his glasses firii)!}', and 
 began turning over the pages of the manuscript, 
 while Phillips leaned back in his chair and closed 
 his eyes — an equivocal proceeding, but in this 
 instance expressing that rapt attention which 
 requires all the other senses to be subordinate to 
 the sense of hearing. 
 
 *I have only just finished my commentary on 
 iEschylus,' said the Professor, as he hurriedly
 
 78 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 turned over the leaves, * who is indeed a giant 
 among tragic writers. I am afraid it is impossible, 
 at a period so remote as this from the times in 
 which he lived, for any commentator to do his 
 wonderful genius full justice ; but I have done my 
 best. I will just read you a translation of my own 
 from one of his tragedies. There have been many 
 other translations, as you very well know ; but I 
 think mine is quite as good as any of them.' 
 
 ' Ay, better, I'll be sworn,' said Phillips, still 
 keeping his eyes shut. 
 
 'It is from the "Agamemnon," which, you will re- 
 member, forms the first play from the trilogy- of 
 the *' Oresteia." All, here it is. No, that's not it. 
 Um — um — Cassandra. Ah, I have it !' 
 
 The Professor laid down the manuscript tenderly 
 upon his knees, and began polishing his spectacles 
 so that the reading might not suffer from any 
 pauses occasioned by a difficulty in making out the 
 writing. Phillips, discovering that his earnest 
 attention would not be required for a few minutes, 
 opened his eyes, and listened while the Professor 
 di^scoursed as follows : 
 
 ' The scene is this. Agamemnon has just returned 
 fiom Troy, and unsuspectingly enters the palace
 
 THE PPvOFESSOPv AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 79 
 
 accompanied by his adulterous wife, Clytemnestra, 
 who, as you will remember, has planned his murder. 
 The slave Cassandra, whom he has brought with 
 him, remains without, seated in the chariot, 
 hope you clearly understand the situation.'' 
 
 * Quite,' replied Phillips tirmly. 
 
 'Imagine yourself one of the chorus, who are 
 standing near Cassandra.' 
 
 Phillips closed his eyes again. 
 
 ' 1 can imagine I'm there,' he said. ' We, the 
 chorus, are looking at her in the chariot.' 
 
 * Very well,' said the Professor. ' She sits with 
 her hands clasping her knees, and her head bent, as 
 if in pain.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Suddenly she turns her livid eyes to the sky, 
 and, lifting her arms entreatingly, murmurs 
 " Apollo !" ' 
 
 ' I can see her,' said Phillips, in a low, breathless 
 tone. 
 
 'The chorus ask why she invokes Apollo. She 
 does not answer them, but repeats her call to the 
 god. Presently, with the pangs of inspiration 
 thrilling her, the past appears as a vision before her 
 eyes, and she bursts forth with this terrible speech.'
 
 80 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 A dead silence ensued. Phillips felt his heart 
 knocking against his ribs as he waited for his friend 
 to proceed. At length he heard these words : 
 
 * I — I've lost my place.' 
 
 This anti-climax broke the spell, and Phillips 
 looked up quickly. The Professor's eyes were 
 wandering over the pages in search of the truant 
 lines. 
 
 ' It's very extraordinary/ he said, after a long 
 pause, 'that I can't find them. Fm afraid, my dear 
 Phillips, I am claiming your attention too long.' 
 
 ' Not at all !' cried Phillips. 
 
 ' You'll forget the scene.' 
 
 ' No, no. Clytemnestra is making speeches from 
 her car ' 
 
 'Cassandra.* 
 
 'Cassandra, I mean. And we, that is the chorus 
 and myself ' 
 
 ' But you are one of the chorus.' 
 
 ' Of course. We're hanging round, wondering 
 what she's going to say next.' 
 
 'Very well. Now, if I can only find the place.' 
 
 Phillips, like many other people, found a difficulty 
 in restraining his imagination within due bounds 
 when he had once set it going.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 81 
 
 ' And I fancy/ he said, closing his eyes again, to 
 conjure up the scene more vividly to his mind, ' I 
 fancy one or two of us think it would be the right 
 thing to go and warn old Agamemnon of his wife's 
 purpose instead of standing there with our mouths 
 open/ 
 
 The Professor felt hurt. 
 
 ' My dear Phillips,' he said, in a quiet tone, * I 
 fear I have exhausted your patience. I don't think 
 you are now quite in the mood to appreciate 
 thoroughly ' 
 
 'Forgive me, old fellow,' cried Phillips, *if I 
 foolishly allowed my imagination to stray. If you 
 will be so kind, I should like to hear your trans- 
 lation above everything.' 
 
 The Professor's mind was of that equable tem- 
 perament that, however much disturbed, the least 
 thing restored it to its usual balance. 
 
 * If I can find it/ he said smilingly, ' you shall 
 have it with the greatest pleasure. Ah ! I think — 
 yes, here it is !' 
 
 Phillips resumed his attitude of attention, and 
 the Professor, drawing a full breatli, began to read : 
 
 ' " Woe ! Woe ! Alas ! what pain ! 
 Again I feel the dread prophetic pangs 
 Shoot through my breast, troubling my anguished soul 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE PEOFESSOK AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 With fated preludings ! See ye those children, 
 Like the fantastic shapes that come in dreams ! 
 Mark ye the cruel wounds, by kinsmen " ' 
 
 ..Suddenly there was a violent knocking at the 
 door, and a sharp female voice rose above the din : 
 
 * Are you never coming to dinner V 
 
 The manuscript dropped from the Professor's 
 hands, and he nervously pulled out his watch. It 
 was a quarter past two, and his sister hated un- 
 punctuality. 
 
 * We must go at once,' he said, turning to Phillips, 
 who had risen hastily on hearing Miss Hewitson's 
 voice. ' I had no idea it was so late.' 
 
 The manuscript was picked up, and replaced in 
 the drawer, and the two friends, like schoolboys 
 who have been playing truant, went with abashed 
 faces to the dining-room.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Phillips would probably have soon begun to find 
 time hanging rather heavily upon his hands had he 
 not quickly perceived the advantages which the 
 place offered for boating purposes. There were 
 plenty of miniature yachts lying in the harbour at 
 the mouth of the estuary, and from these he selected 
 one of sufficiently light draught to enable him to 
 navigate the river for some distance even above the 
 Professor's cottage. Every day, according to the 
 state of the tide, his small sail might be seen 
 on the water tacking to and fro, with a neatness 
 and precision that proclaimed his skill as a sailor. 
 
 The Professor dared not venture, for he jestingl}^ 
 observed that he had laid by his sea-legs so long 
 ago that they were unserviceable, and Phillips did 
 not consider it necessary to invite the ladies. But 
 the two girls, for whom the water had always pos- 
 sessed a wonderful charm, were his constant com- 
 
 6—2
 
 84 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 panions. The Professor, followed by Pip, would 
 walk with them down to the small stone quay, and 
 watch them as they cast off, when Pip would 
 burst into a violent fit of barking, and his master 
 would wave his stick as a God-speed. 
 
 If Alpha had the power of suppressing her 
 emotions, or at least of controlling them with a dis- 
 creetness beyond her years, Omega had not ; and 
 her demonstrative high spirits whenever she was 
 going for a sail occasioned much uneasiness to her 
 aunt, who considered that such exhibitions were 
 not compatible with a proper sense of maidenly 
 modesty. 
 
 Miss Hewitson was by no means pleased that she 
 and Mrs. Mappertree were excluded from these little 
 excursions. Her pride was touched by Phillips's 
 want of attention, and she felt it as keenly as if she 
 had received a deliberate insult. 
 
 ' I suppose we are not agreeable enough to be 
 asked,' she said to !Mrs. Mappertree one day, ' though 
 I should like to know why not !' 
 
 * I think he might ask us,' replied Mrs. Mapper- 
 tree, 'though, for myself, I detest salt water. I 
 should never go of my own free-will, though, when 
 I lived at Boodle Hall, where we had an ornamental
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 85 
 
 lake with a lot of gold-fish in it, whom I used to feed 
 every morning with crumbs from the breakfast- 
 table — I remember it was in this very lake that one 
 of our domestics — a young girl, whose mother kept 
 a mangle and attended the Presbyterian church — 
 a most exemplary woman — well, she was found 
 drowned ; some say it was suicide, but ' 
 
 ' Jane !' cried Miss Hewitson, ' you try my 
 patience with your rambling tomfooleries. Listen 
 to me !' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree had drawn forth the inevitable 
 handkerchief, and was wiping away an imaginary 
 tear. 
 
 * Whether you are a good sailor or not,' continued 
 Miss Hewitson, ' you must be prepared to go on 
 board that boat ; for I shall most certainly accept 
 if I can only force Mr. Phillips to ask us.' 
 
 * You don't know how dreadful ' 
 
 * I don't care ! I am put out, I confess. It is not 
 right that we should be treated in this uncivil 
 manner, and I shall speak to my brother seriously 
 about it.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree inwardly prayed that, as far as 
 boating was concerned, Phillips would persist in his 
 uncourteous behaviour ; for her dread of the water
 
 86 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 was unconquerable. Had she lived at the time of 
 the deluge_, nothing would have induced her to enter 
 the Ark. 
 
 However, Miss Hewitson was spared the un- 
 pleasant necessity of appealing to her brother by his 
 own direct interposition. 
 
 * Why don't you ask the ladies to accompany you 
 in the boat one of these days V he asked Phillips. 
 ' I am sure, if the day were warm and the wind 
 moderate, the};^ would enjoy it.' 
 
 There was no escape for Phillips, so he put on a 
 look as though he wondered the idea had never 
 occurred to him before, and said : 
 
 * If Miss Hewitson would like to come, I shall be 
 pleased to take her.' 
 
 ' There now, that's handsomely said !' cried the 
 Professor. * What do you say, sister T 
 
 ' Oh, I feel intensely gratified that Mr. PhilKps 
 should have condescended to ask us, and both 
 Jane and myself will be delighted to accompany 
 him.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree groaned in spirit. 
 
 * Well, let us say to-morrow,' said Phillips, * if 
 nothing should prevent us.' 
 
 When the morrow came, the wind happened tp
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTEKS. 87 
 
 be somewhat fresh, and Phillips expected that Miss 
 Hewitson would defer the expedition to a calmer 
 day ; but, to his surprise, she merely told him that 
 she did not think any postponement necessary. 
 This determination, which may seem somewhat un- 
 accountable, considering that Miss Hewitson was 
 scarcely more enamoured of the water than her 
 friend, can be easily explained. In the first place, 
 she knew that Phillips would be only too glad if 
 she changed her mind, and consequently her pride 
 would not allow her to do so ; in the next place, she 
 found a certain pleasure in the thought of the suflfer- 
 ings that poor Mrs. Mappertree would experience, 
 and was unwilling to give her a reprieve ; and, for 
 a third reason, she was desirous of punishing Meggy, 
 who, in a passionate moment, had applied the 
 appalling term ' fool ' to her sister. 
 
 Yes, the wind — playing the traitor — had borne 
 •through the open window full upon the startled ears 
 of the two ladies the insulting epithet. There was 
 but one course — punishment. 
 
 It must not be imagined that Miss Hewitson was 
 animated by any blind feeling of dislike to her 
 unlucky niece because she so frequently punished 
 her. She was, unquestionably, an honest-minded
 
 88 THE PROFESSOR A^^D HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 woman; but, unhappily, her sternness of disposition 
 made her inflict heavy penalties for very venial 
 faults. The consequence was that Meggy began to 
 look upon herself as an ill-used creature, for it is in 
 the nature of punishment that is disproportioned to 
 the offence not to correct, but to harden. 
 
 Meggy appeared sullenly before her aunt, and, 
 without offering any plea in mitigation, waited in 
 silence for the sentence. 
 
 The epithet was an unhappy one to have chosen, 
 more especially as Dr. Watts has penned a little song 
 for the express purpose of pointing out the ultimate 
 destination of persons who use it. 
 
 ' Where is Dr. Watts V said Miss Hewitson, with 
 terrible calmness. 
 
 Meggy bit her lips, and went in search of the 
 obnoxious book. 
 
 When she returned, her aunt continued : 
 
 * Turn to Song XVIIl,, " Against scoffing and call- 
 ing names." Read aloud the second verse.' 
 
 Meggy steeled her heart — she was indeed getting 
 hardened — and read in a tone of indifference : 
 
 *" Cross words and angry nanies require 
 To be chastised at school ; 
 And he's in danger of hell fire 
 That calls his brother fool." '
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 89 
 
 Miss HewitsoQ bent her eyes sternly on the child 
 and said : 
 
 ' You will learn that verse by heart — with this 
 alteration : instead of repeating the last two lines as 
 they are written there, you will say: 
 
 * " And she's in danger of hell fire 
 That calls her sister fool." 
 
 And you will not accompany us in the boat to- 
 day.' 
 
 Alpha, pale and trembling, now entered the room 
 and uttered a childish appeal — and what appeal 
 can be stronger ? — for her sister's pardon. But Miss 
 Hewitson was stung by Meggy's display of indiffer- 
 ence, and, turning to the hapless culprit, ordered 
 her in an austere tone to go to her room and remain 
 there until she was called clown. 
 
 The wind had not fallen when the party prepared 
 to start, and the Professor joined Phillips in suggest- 
 ing a postponement, but Miss Hewitson was not to 
 be turned from her purpose. 
 
 * There is no danger, surely T she said, turning to 
 Phillips. 
 
 * Oh, none whatever !' was his reply ; ' but unless 
 you and Mrs. Mappertree are good sailors, you may 
 wish you hadn't come.'
 
 90 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Airs. Mappertree felt an inward qualm, and 
 groaned. 
 
 ' You need not fear on our account,' cried Miss 
 Hewitson ; ' Jane and I are not afraid of a little toss- 
 ing about.' 
 
 The Professor attended them to the quay, and 
 saw Mrs. Mappertree, his sister, and Alpha safely 
 deposited in the stern of the boat. He remarked 
 Mrs. Mappertree's unhappy expression, and volun- 
 teered, with a jesting smile, to bring her a glass of 
 liqueur; but she only shook her head, and nervously 
 wiped her face with her handkerchief. 
 
 The sails were set, and the boat began to quiver 
 and toss like a greyhound straining at its leash. 
 At length, when everything was ready, the rope 
 was slipped, and the boat bounded away through 
 the water. The Professor waved his hat, and Pip 
 barked a good-bye, which did not cease until a good 
 distance separated the boat from the land. Then 
 the Professor turned, and, pulling a small volume 
 from his pocket, sauntered back to the house. 
 
 The boat sped across the water with restless 
 activity, steered by Alpha, acting under the direc- 
 tion of Phillips, who sat in the centre holding the 
 mainsheet, and smoking vigorously. Every now
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 91 
 
 ^nd then a gust of wind would come and heel the 
 boat over on one side, much to the consternation of 
 Mrs. Mappertree. Alpha, with her long blonde hair 
 floating in the wind, felt keen delight in listening to 
 the eternal ' chop-chop ' of the water as it dashed 
 against the side of the boat. When they had 
 neared the opposite shore, they tacked towards 
 home again, and, being this time almost in the 
 teeth of the wind, the boat began to dip its head 
 furiously into the water, like some wild creature 
 determinedly forcing its way through all opposition. 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree closed her eyes and began to 
 groan audibly, for she already felt the throes of 
 approaching sickness. Her brain whirled with the 
 motion of the boat, and she sank in a heap upon the 
 seat. Miss Hewitson viewed her silently ; for, to 
 tell the truth, she herself was experiencing, though 
 in a much less degree, her friend's uncomfortable 
 state of mind. She did not, however, allow it to be 
 noticed, but sat gauntly upright, with bent brows 
 and clenched teeth. 
 
 ' I think we had better make for home again,' 
 said Phillips ; ' Mrs. Mappertree and the sea are evi- 
 dently not on the best terms. What do you say, 
 Miss Hewitson V
 
 92 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Miss Hewitson, not daring to open her moutli, 
 contented herself with nodding her head. 
 
 *I thought to-day was scarcely tit for you ladies 
 to venture/ continued Phillips ; 'but you would not 
 take my advice. I am afraid you will not have 
 enjoyed yourselves.' 
 
 The boat skimmed over the water, and after a 
 quick run, during which Mrs. Mappertree, with her 
 head over the side, was apparently" displaying a 
 keen interest in the action of the passing waves, the 
 party found themselves once more on dry land. 
 
 In the meantime, much had happened to Meggy. 
 From a window in her room, she watched the party 
 as they left the house and proceeded towards the 
 quay. She followed them with her ej^es until a 
 clump of trees hid them from view, and then she 
 sat back in her chair with Dr. Watts's volume open 
 upon her lap, and began thinking. 
 
 She was in a very unhappy mood. She fancied 
 that she was unjustly treated, and that everyone was 
 leagued ao-ainst her. It did not matter much what 
 she did ; it was sure to be wrong, and then there 
 was no one to take her part. Even her father, 
 whom she loved with a blind atfection for his un-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 93 
 
 swerving kindness — even he, she felt, dared not 
 remonstrate with her aunt upon the latter's harsh 
 mode of treatment towards his little daughter. If 
 it had been any other man, she would have despised 
 him for so tamely submitting to a woman's domina- 
 tion ; and perhaps, for the time, she did feel some- 
 thing approaching to contempt for the man whom 
 she loved so well. Her sister, too^ who should have 
 felt Meggy's misfortunes as her own, was accus- 
 tomed to sit by with impassive face while she was 
 smarting under a rebuke. *Is this sisterly love,' she 
 thought? 'If so, it is not of much value. If she 
 were punished, I should feel for her, and go and 
 mix my tears with hers ; but her idea of what a 
 sister's affection should be is very diflferent from 
 mine. But then, she is so good, and I am — so bad !' 
 Towards her aunt Meggy had but one feeling — 
 that of bitter hatred. This feeling slumbered at 
 times, but at every fresh reprimand it woke and 
 rose in all its hideousness. It was like a familiar 
 demon, that lived in a corner of her brain, and 
 existed upon her violent passions — that withered 
 away when she was contented and happy, but 
 sprang up in new vigour when her aunt was de- 
 liverinoj one of her stern rebukes. At such times,
 
 94 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 she felt the demon awaking within her, and chuck- 
 ling with joy at his approaching feast, and urging 
 her to utter inwardly the words, 'I hate you ! I 
 hate you !' 
 
 And yet Meggy, in spite of this violence of 
 temper and other blemishes of character that were 
 developing under her aunt's treatment into positive 
 faults, was a lovable girl. She had the good qualities 
 that are usually associated with passionate natures ; 
 she was very amenable to kindness, she quickly 
 forgave, and had a melting heart for the misfortunes 
 of others. Are not these qualities, even when 
 accompanied by a quick temper, to be preferred to- 
 that disposition which is always placid, always 
 good, always uninteresting ? 
 
 Meggy sat for a long time brooding over her 
 wrongs, and picturing to herself how in a few years 
 she would be able to bid defiance to all who now 
 treated her unjustly; then she turned her eyes to 
 her lap and saw the open book. It acted upon her 
 as a red flag acts upon an infuriated bull; for it 
 brought to her mind a long series of punishments 
 with which this same little book was associated. 
 The pages in many places were embrowned and 
 dog's-eared by her little fingers as she had im-
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 95 
 
 patiently conned the lines she had to learn ; and 
 there were — here and there — light-coloured splashes 
 which represented so many tears that she had shed 
 over her hateful task. 
 
 'I won't look at you!' she cried, addressing the 
 book as though it were a living thing. ' I won't ! 
 I hate you ! You nasty, horrid book ! Why were 
 you written to torment people ? I tell you I won't 
 look at you, and I won't ! There !' 
 
 She seized the book in her hand, and flung it 
 violently from her. As luck would have it, the 
 room had been cleaned in the morning, and a fire 
 was burning in the grate to get rid of the damp- 
 ness. The book fell plump on the top of the fire, 
 and the leaves were quickly caught by the blaze, 
 ^^ggy^ after having hurled away the offending 
 volume, had buried her face in her hands, and had 
 not observed where it fell. She sat thus for some 
 time, with her hands tightly pressed over her eyes 
 to drive away the evil thoughts that were oppress- 
 ing her; and when she fancied she had succeeded, 
 she drew away her hands and looked up, deter- 
 mined to face her position bravely and learn the 
 admonitory lines set her. 
 
 No sooner did she see the result of her passionate
 
 96 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS D.VUGHTERS. 
 
 action than she caught her breath with fright, and 
 stood with staring eyes and clenched hands trans- 
 fixed to the spot. Her heart beat violently, and a 
 sickening sensation passed over her whole body. 
 
 At last she found speech. 
 
 ' Oh, what have I done ! What have I done ! I 
 shall never be forgiven !' 
 
 The tears, which hitherto had been kept back 
 by that kind of paralysis that attends fright, now 
 burst forth as her mind pictured the consequences 
 of her deed. After a while, during which she was 
 seated at the end of her little bedstead, she rose, 
 and, brushing away the tears with her hands, went 
 to the fireplace to ascertain the extent of the 
 damage the book had sustained. Alas, it was 
 irreparable ! 
 
 The cover, being of stout material and hardened 
 with age, was indeed uninjured ; but the leaves 
 were all burnt, except in one corner where the fire 
 had been content with a portion only, leavmg a 
 transverse line of charred paper to mark the extent 
 of its ravages. Thus there was still just enough of 
 Song XXII. remaining to remind her that it was 
 directed against ' Pride in cloaths !' It appeared in 
 this fashion :
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 97 
 
 ' Why should our garments made . . . 
 
 Our parents' shame provoke . . . 
 The art of dress did ne'er . . . 
 Till Eve, our mother . . .' 
 
 There was no help for it ; the book was utterly 
 spoilt. She laid it on the table, regarding it no 
 longer as a hated enemy, but as an old acquaint- 
 ance, who was certainly unpleasant in life, but who 
 would be missed and to some extent regretted in 
 death. Her thoughts, however, were soon turned 
 into another channel. What was she to do ? 
 
 For the moment, she thought of concocting some 
 story which would make the injury to the book 
 appear as having happened by accident. But 
 though this would not have been absolutely false, 
 yet it had the elements of a lie about it ; and 
 Meggy, who scorned a lie, rejected it unhesitatingly. 
 There was then no palliation that she could offer, 
 and she must submit silently to the punishment 
 that she had incurred by her foolish act. 
 
 She saw her father return to the house, and 
 thought of easing her heart and in some measure 
 taking the sting off her punishment by confessing 
 to him what she had done. But she feared that 
 she might not be able to relate her story with 
 sufficient clearness, and might give him the impres- 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 sion that she had wilfully put the book on the fire 
 — which would be worse thaa leaving the matter to 
 its own development. And yet she felt the greatest 
 dread of the prospect before her — of having to stand 
 beneath her aunt's terrible glance and listen to the 
 heart- cutting words that would be flung at her. 
 
 As the minutes passed, and her aunt's return drew 
 nearer, this feeling gradually rose to such a pitch 
 hat she could endure it no longer Uttering a low, 
 terrified cr}?- — as of some wild animal fleeing from 
 its pursuers — she rushed downstairs, and, without 
 stopping to put on her hat, passed through the open 
 door on to the high-road. 
 
 She ran for a short space, being desirous to cover 
 as much ground as possible before her flight should 
 be discovered ; but her breath soon failed her, and 
 she dropped into a quick walk. For an hour she 
 paced along without meeting with anyone ; then, 
 feeling tired, she sat down upon a stone by the side 
 of the road to rest herself. 
 
 In this position, so suited to meditation, she 
 could not help reflecting on the step she had so 
 precipitately taken. She had left her home, and 
 her dear father, and her gentle sister, and if she 
 persisted in her flight, might never see them again.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 99 
 
 She might return, it was true ; but then she would 
 have to face her aunt, and that was an ordeal tlie 
 mere contemplation of which caused her to shudder. 
 In this dilemma the poor child could see no clear 
 course before her, and, fancying her unhappy situa- 
 tion was beyond all remedy, she hid her face in her 
 hands, and cried bitterly. 
 
 When Miss Hewitson found herself once more 
 in the house after leaving the boat, and felt 
 herself perfectly free from that strange sensation 
 that had for some time previously possessed her, 
 she sternly rebuked Mrs. Mappertree for the 
 piteous spectacle that that unhappy lady had 
 made of herself before a creature of the other sex. 
 
 * I cannot but think, Jane,' she said, * that you 
 are a woman of very poor spirit if you cannot 
 trust yourself upon the water without making 
 such an absurd exhibition of yourself You 
 know; if you had made up your mind, you 
 mio^ht have fjone throuojh it as well as I have 
 
 o o o 
 
 done.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree, who was sitting in a very limp 
 condition on a chair, was completely crushed by 
 this insinuation, and could do no more than give 
 
 7-2
 
 100 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 utterance to an expostulatory groan. Miss 
 Hewitson, having thus eased herself to some extent 
 of the bile that was floating in her mind, now re- 
 collected that there was a duty before her which 
 must take precedence of all others, and she sent 
 Alpha to summon her sister. 
 
 Alpha presently returned, with a scared look. 
 
 ' I can't find Meggy, aunt, and something — some- 
 thing dreadful has happened to Dr. Watts.' 
 
 * What do you mean ?' 
 
 * All the inside has been burnt out, and only the 
 cover remains.^ 
 
 Miss Hewitson contracted her brows, and 
 said : 
 
 * If that is so, no punishment will be too 
 severe for the wicked child who has committed 
 so monstrous an act. Fetch me the book at 
 once.' 
 
 When it was brought to her, and she had 
 examined its condition, she muttered in a low 
 voice : 
 
 ' That child is beyond redemption ! I despair of 
 her from now.' 
 
 As soon as it became clear that Meggy was not 
 concealed in the house, Miss Hewitson determined
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 101 
 
 to consult her brother, and for that purpose de- 
 scended to his study. 
 
 She found the Professor standing before the fire- 
 place, with a much redder face than usual, while 
 Phillips stood by him with his hand on his friend's 
 shoulder. 
 
 As she entered, the Professor was saying: 
 
 ' I don't care 1 It's a most annoying thing, and 
 the child ' 
 
 'Now, now, my dear fellow,' said Phillips, 
 ^ don't say anything that you may regret. It's a 
 surprising thing indeed to find you out of 
 temper !' 
 
 * But surely you will admit ' 
 
 'It's annoying, certainly, but ' 
 
 ' The fruit of twelve hours' careful deliberatior 
 completely spoilt. It formed a most conclusive 
 answer to the absurd speculations of this self- 
 styled scholar ; and there it lies, disfigured and de- 
 faced 1' 
 
 The Professor waved his handkerchief towards 
 what appeared to be the contents of a waste-paper 
 basket turned out upon the floor, and then blew his 
 nose violently. 
 
 ' Well, well, old fellow,' said Phillips, taking his
 
 102 THE PROFESSOK AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 pipe off the mantelpiece, and filling it, 'the kittens 
 knew no better !' 
 
 ' But look at the damage they've done to what 
 was a piece of criticism of the most scathing 
 nature, such as a man surely deserves who can 
 calmly sit down and write upon a subject of which 
 he has no knowledge. He pretends to an acquaint- 
 ance with Greek literature, and yet he has the 
 hardihood to assert that Plato ' 
 
 ' Tut, tut ! Let him remain in his ignorance. 
 Wh}' should you enlighten him ? Besides, are you 
 sure of the soundness of your arguments when 
 even three little kittens can contrive to knock holes 
 in them ?' 
 
 The Professor smiled at this poor jest ; and 
 Phillips, glad to have turned away his friend's 
 wrath, lit his pipe and puffed vigorously. 
 
 * What is the matter_, brother ?' asked Miss 
 Hewitson, who had followed the preceding conver- 
 sation with much perplexity. 
 
 ' Ah, dear ! Infandum,regina Well, the cause 
 
 of my ill-temper — which my excellent friend here 
 has succeeded in pacifying — Ugh ! Your tobacco, 
 my dear Phillips, has a strong savour. Well, the 
 cause is briefly this. For the last two hours I have
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 103 
 
 been engaged in writing a scathing reply to an 
 utterly untrustworthy article on "Greek Home Life," 
 written by a man whom I can only designate as a 
 pedantic noodle, whose knowledge has been taken 
 into his system as he doubtless takes his food — im- 
 moderately and voraciously — and has become an ill- 
 digested mass ! A man like this, who sets his 
 crude notions before the public, is, I say, a man 
 deserving of the severest censure ; and I feel ' 
 
 Phillips perceived that his friend was gradually 
 working himself up into another fit of temper ; 
 for nothing put the Professor out so much as an 
 undue assumption of knowledge. He therefore in- 
 terrupted him, and said : 
 
 ' The facts are these. Miss Hewitson. There hap- 
 pened to be three kittens in the room, and as soon 
 as your brother had finished a sheet, and had thrown 
 it carelessly aside, they, believing it to be meant for 
 their amusement, pounced upon it, clawed it, tore 
 holes in it, and generallj^ mauled it beyond recog- 
 nition. There are the remnants of some twelve 
 sheets. The kittens have certainly treated this 
 scathing criticism rather roughly, but so did your 
 brother his rival.' 
 
 ' My rival 1' cried the Professor. ' Why, the fellow
 
 _.-^ 
 
 s man w^Miilu]^ <atf nht. m^aa^ is[ wi\[t'\i\^r- ss 1 tsM j<iw&. 
 
 'Weil, ai 
 
 
 
 Ifk^ij^^ 
 
 iia-r 
 
 Ite 
 
 afraid to 
 w would lae l&eB 
 
 TMiCr 
 
 Be WatUbTs b^i:.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 10.") 
 
 * Here is the evidence of it. She had some lines 
 to learn from this book in our absence. You see its 
 condition now ! In one of her violent fits of passion 
 she has thrust the book on the fire, and then has 
 run away to escape punishment.' 
 
 ' My child ! my child !' cried the Professor, sink- 
 ing into his chair. ' What is to be done V 
 
 Phillips, who possessed that capacity for action in 
 moments of emergency which was lacking in his 
 friend, laid his pipe upon the table, and said : 
 
 'Listen to me! If she is within any reasonable 
 distance, she shall be with you again before night- 
 fall.' 
 
 The Professor, left to himself, became more com- 
 posed. Phillips, he thought, was evidently of 
 opinion that Meggy was not far off, and he was not 
 the sort of man to undertake a search without pro- 
 secutinor it to the utmost. Indeed, he had o-one so 
 far as to promise that Meggy should be home again 
 before dark^ and he would certainly not have done so 
 had he not been pretty sure of success. 
 
 The Professor, thus relieved by his knowledge of 
 his friend's vigorous character, picked up from the 
 tloor a small volume of Epictetus, and began to 
 read. Presently, he put down the book, took off
 
 106 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 his spectacles, and, gazing vacantly at the fire, began 
 talking to himself. 
 
 *I could wish that my article had escaped so 
 disastrous a fate, and yet perhaps it is better as it 
 is. Why scourge a lambkin with a rod of iron ? 
 I must confess I laid about me vigorously, and with 
 perhaps undue severity, considering that I had to 
 deal with a poor, shallow-brained fellow, who 
 makes a pretentious claim to scholarship, and who 
 
 Hark ! I hear voices ! My child has come 
 
 back ! Meggy ! Meggy !' 
 
 The Professor rose hurriedly, and stood in an 
 attitude of anxious expectation as the door opened, 
 and Phillips, leading Meggy by the hand, appeared. 
 Meggy stood still for a moment, with her head 
 lowered as if in shame; then, suddenly casting a 
 look at her father's face, she darted towards him, 
 crying : 
 
 ' Forgive me, dear father ! forgive me !' 
 
 The Professor was so moved by the sight of his 
 beloved child, that he could give no verbal answer 
 to her appeal, though the warmth of his embrace 
 sufficiently attested that his forgiveness was not 
 withheld. 
 
 Miss Hewitson at this moment entered the room.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AKD HIS DAUGHTERS. 107 
 
 * I have just been thanking Mrs. Yenner,' she 
 said, 'for her kindness in bringing this wayward 
 child back to us. I think you should say a few 
 words to her.' 
 
 The Professor looked at Phillips for an explanation. 
 
 ' Mrs. Yenner/ said the latter, * was driving aloDg 
 the road_, when she saw Meggy seated on one side, 
 crying. Knowing her by sight, she spoke to her 
 and learnt her story, whereupon she took her in- 
 side the carriage, and brought her on here.' 
 
 The Professor, still retaining Meggy's hand, went 
 to the carriage door, and thanked Mrs. Yenner in a 
 few simple words. 
 
 ' I cannot,' he said, ' at this moment give expres- 
 sion to mj^ feelings in such a manner as your great 
 kindness merits. If I shall not be intruding upon 
 your privacy, I will do myself the honour of call- 
 ing upon you in a few days, when I hope I may 
 be able to thank you properly.' 
 
 As the carriage drove off he raised Meggy in his 
 arms, and kissed her. 
 
 * You must never leave me again, my child,' he 
 said. ' Think how blank my life would be without 
 you. What would happen to the castle-ruin if 
 bereft of its clinging ivy V
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Mrs. Venner, to whom the Professor had expressed 
 himself as being so much indebted for her kind- 
 ness in restoring Meggy to his arms, lived in a 
 large old-fashioned house, situated some three 
 miles from the Professor's cottasje. The house 
 itself lay in the midst of a charming park-like 
 country, containing many varieties of scenery — 
 swelling green plains, dense woods of oak and elm, 
 and steep, ston}^ hills, with a background of frown- 
 ing mountains. The estate had been for generations 
 in the family of the Howells of Pengwern ; but the 
 last owner of that name having lost large sums 
 upon the turf, and being without a son to succeed 
 him, had been glad to dispose of the property to 
 Captain Venner, of the Dragoons, in whose books 
 liis name appeared as a large debtor. 
 
 When Captain Venner died — to the intense grief, 
 as his tombstone records, of his inconsolable widow
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 109 
 
 and sorrowing friends, to whom his manifold vir- 
 tues had justly endeared him — Mrs. Yenner went 
 to live at Pengwern Park with her youthful son. 
 
 Here she lived a life altogether opposed to the 
 natural inclination of a young and handsome widow, 
 with a fair income and but one encumbrance. She 
 held aloof from the few neighbouring landowners,, 
 refusing altogether to return their visits, and lived 
 in the most perfect seclusion. The neighbours, 
 when they met — which was not often, except at 
 Quarter Sessions — shook their heads at one another, 
 and whispered that Mrs. Venner was still as odd 
 as ever. 
 
 They turned up their Peerages and County 
 Histories to see whether any of the Sansterre 
 family — Mrs. Venner being a daughter of Viscount 
 Sansterre of Glanmoyle in the Peerage of Ireland — 
 had ever been afflicted with madness ; but they 
 found nothing. After many vain surmises, they 
 came to the conclusion that she was a proud, ill- 
 tempered woman, who, on the score of her Sansterre 
 blood — which was as blue as the most ardent 
 aristocrat could desire — looked down upon them 
 and treated them in her contemptuous manner ac- 
 cordingly. By degrees, too, it came to be whispered
 
 110 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 that she and the late Captain Yenner — whose 
 forefathers were no better distinguished than as 
 being honest brewers of beer and owners of public- 
 houses — had not lived together on the best of terms ; 
 and that, far from cherishing any feeling of venera- 
 tion for the memory of her deceased husband, she 
 cherished a feeling of undying hatred, which existed 
 in spite of the closed tomb. For once, public 
 rumour, which is apt to confound assumption with 
 fact, was correct. 
 
 Mrs. Venner was indeed proud and ill-tempered : 
 proud, because her ancestry was so distinguished ; 
 ill-tempered, or rather soured, because she had been 
 linked to a worthless husband upon whom the 
 bloom of her life had been wasted. She did not 
 trouble her mind with the thought that she herself 
 had been partly accountable for her miserable 
 married life, that she had been guilt}^ of a direct 
 fraud in giving her hand to Captain Venner when 
 she retained possession of her heart. The Sansterres, 
 in spite of their blue blood, had very little yellow 
 gold, and when rich young men, like Captain 
 Venner, made the ladies of the family offers of 
 marriage, they were accustomed to put any question 
 of love altogether in the background. The custom
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. Ill 
 
 worked well enough so far as augmenting the family 
 influence was concerned; but, as a rule, these mar- 
 riages did not result in much happiness. 
 
 Captain Venner, like many young men whose 
 fathers liave been the architects of their own 
 fortune, began life badly. He was one of those who 
 spend the first years of their life in making the rest 
 of it miserable. Even before entering the army, he 
 was by no means a stranger to the seductive ways 
 of vice ; but, after he had put on the handsome 
 uniform of Her Majesty's 2ord Regiment of 
 Dragoons, he and vice became intimately associated. 
 Just as a spider, catching an unwary fly who has 
 strayed from the bright sunshine into the tempt- 
 ingly arrayed web before him, proceeds to enmesh 
 him in a silken net from which there is no escaping, 
 so does vice, when it has trapped an innocent, 
 proceed to cast upon him its gilded but indissoluble 
 bonds. 
 
 Captain Venner passed his time among gamblers, 
 drunkards, and courtesans ; and when he was 
 married at the age of eight-and-twenty to the 
 charming daughter of Viscount Sansterre, he was a 
 young man with an old constitution. 
 
 With the jaded appetite of a profligate, he soon
 
 112 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 tired of his wife, and betook himself to his old com- 
 panions and haunts. He did, indeed, honour his 
 wife with occasional visits; but, when he discovered 
 that she had a strong temper and a biting tongue, 
 they became, like those of the angels, few and far 
 between. In these meetings, indeed, decorum was 
 altogether cast aside, and expressions were made 
 use of on both sides which would undoubtedly be 
 considered ' low ' at Billingsgate. In this way did 
 six years of married life pass away — the wordy 
 combats between the well-matched pair becoming 
 fiercer and fiercer as ' the happy day ' on w^iich 
 they had been united in the sweet bonds of matri- 
 mony receded farther into the past — when Death 
 stepped in between them, and carried off the gallant 
 husband in a fit of delirium tremens at the early 
 age of thirty-four. 
 
 Mrs. Venner, relieved of her incubus, young, 
 handsome, wealthy, and with but one child, might 
 have easily married again ; but she did not. The 
 sweetness of life for her was past ; all love, with the 
 exception hereafter to be mentioned, was dead within 
 her — only a sense of grievous wrong that made her 
 hate her kind remained. She accordingly refused 
 with disdain the hands of one or two suitors who
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 113 
 
 were bold enough to declare their passion for this 
 haughty, smileless piece of womanhood, and retired 
 sullenly to Pengwern Park with her youthful son. 
 There she lived in solitude, brooding over the 
 past. 
 
 Her son, Charles, by that fearful ordinance of God 
 which declares that the sins of the fathers shall be 
 visited on the children, was a delicate and sickly 
 lad; and it was always a doubtful point whether he 
 would live to reach man's estate. His mother re- 
 Ajarded him with a double feelinoj. There were 
 times when she astonished the household by her 
 outbursts of love, which were rather animal than 
 human. She would seize and straia him to her 
 breast, showering kisses upon him the while, and 
 murmuring the most endearing epithets. At other 
 times_, when she fancied she detected in him some 
 striking resemblance to her dead husband, the ohl 
 hatred rose up within her^ and she treated him with 
 a violence which was all the more marked by con- 
 trast with her occasional demonstrations of intense 
 affection. This uncertain treatment, coupled with 
 the fact that he was deprived of the advantage of 
 associating with boys of his own age and station, 
 was certainl}^ not calculated to turn Charles into 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 the ideal English lad — frank, truthful, courageous^ 
 and sweet-tempered. 
 
 Its effects, indeed, were very different. He grew 
 up shy and reserved, with a lack of straightforward- 
 ness that showed itself in many an evasion, prevari- 
 cation, or piece of sly cunning. His temper was 
 revengeful^ and his courage — which he inherited 
 from both father and mother — was deficient in that 
 generosity which prompts a man to wait until his 
 enemy is on equal terms with himself before attack- 
 ing him. And yet, that it may not be imagined 
 that Charles's character was wholly without redeem- 
 ing traits, it should be mentioned that he was kind 
 to those under him when they made themselves 
 useful to him, and was lavish with his reward^i 
 while his money lasted. 
 
 Being denied the society of young men of his 
 own clasSj it was but natural that he should seek 
 friends where he could find them — that is, among- 
 the men-servants and the sons of the tenants. 
 Among these, the one whom he raised to the rank 
 of his chief counsellor and friend was a young 
 stable-help named Dick Revell, who was some two 
 or three years his senior. It was an unfortunate 
 choice, for the fellow was as full of tricks as an egg
 
 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 115 
 
 is of meat, and, being apparently perfectly destitute 
 of any scruples of honour, formed altogether a most 
 undesirable companion for a lad in Charles's posi- 
 tion. He had, however_, a merry, impudent face, a 
 good humour, and a fund of not over-refined anec- 
 dotes, which made his acquaintance say that though 
 Dick was a rogue, yet he must be acknowledged 
 a very pleasant rogue. He had originally been 
 employed with his father at Captain Yenner's 
 stables at Newmarket ; but, on the death of his 
 parent, from whom he had received the seeds of a 
 very dubious philosophy, he was despatched by the 
 Captain to the latter's newly purchased estate in 
 Wales. 
 
 He had, however, remained long enough at New- 
 market to become impregnated with that love of 
 the turf and its attendant spirit of trickery which 
 is always present in a horse-racing centre ; and his 
 greatest ambition was one day to renew his early 
 associations with the racing fraternity. He dis- 
 played very much sagacity in the way in which he 
 managed to retain the friendship of his young 
 master — a friendship valuable to him in many ways. 
 He contrived, indeed, to gain a certain ascendency 
 over Charles, without the latter being in the least 
 
 8—2
 
 116 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 aware of it. He was boisterous, deferential, sympa- 
 thetic, and confidential in turns, exactly as it suited 
 the predominant state of Charles's humour. 
 
 He it was who supplied Charles with his first 
 pipe of tobacco, and pumped upon him when the 
 natural consequences followed ; who initiated him 
 in the mysteries of rat-catching and cock-fighting ; 
 who taught him to distinguish between brandy and 
 whisky ; and who instructed him in the most ap- 
 proved means of finding favour with the fair sex. 
 This briefly is a description of the family whom the 
 Professor, in spite of the fact that he had lived in 
 their immediate neighbourhood for ten years, was 
 about to become acquainted with for the first 
 time. 
 
 Miss Hewitson had some difficulty in satisfying 
 herself that her brother made a sufficiently present- 
 able figure to call upon a lady in whose veins 
 ti.owed the blood of the Sansterre family. The 
 clothes which he had worn on the occasion of his 
 marriage, and which, being too good for ordinary 
 country wear, had been carefully laid by with 
 sprigs of lavender in his chest of drawers upstairs, 
 were brought out, and aired, and dusted, and put in 
 readiness for the Professor. With the natural
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 117 
 
 obstinacy of man, he, however, declared a pre- 
 ference for the suit he was accustomed to wear; 
 but when Miss Hewitson pointed out its many 
 faults — the bulginess of the pockets, occasioned by 
 his habit of carrying books in them, the frayed 
 condition of the button-holes, and the alarming 
 shininess of the back — he could do no more than 
 mutter his astonishment at women being so keen 
 to take notice of such minutiae of dress. 
 
 When at last all preparations were finished, and 
 Miss Hewitson, clad in a black silk dress of the 
 very stiffest description and wearing a bonnet of 
 a severely original character, was waiting for him 
 with Omega by her side, it was a difiicult matter 
 to get him away from his study, where, in the 
 charming company of Horace, he had forgotten all 
 about the intended visit. As it was, coming away 
 while in the middle of a sentence, he walked along 
 as far as the park in a maze, trying vainly to recall 
 the exact words that followed. 
 
 ' Brother, I declare you have been asleep all the 
 way,' cried Miss Hewitson, as they entered the 
 gates, ' for not one word have you uttered.' 
 
 ' I have been communing with myself, sister.' 
 
 ' Which is not very polite to the lady by your
 
 118 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 side. I can assure you it is no great pleasure to 
 walk with you.' 
 
 ' I ask your pardon, sister, but I am not gifted 
 with that light style of conversation that pleases 
 your sex. Had Phillips been with us, you could 
 not have complained ; for he can as easily hold a 
 lively, bantering chat with a lady as an argumenta- 
 tive discourse with a philosopher.' 
 
 * You are certainly a most obliging man to your 
 friends, for you credit them with all the finest 
 qualities, whether they possess them or not. As 
 for your friend Phillips, I can tell you my opinion 
 is very different from yours. He is a conceited, ill- 
 mannered ' 
 
 ' Priscilla ! not a word against my friend,' said 
 the Professor sternly. Depreciating those whom he 
 loved was one of the things that he would not tole- 
 rate, even from his sister. ' But see,' he added, 
 ' here we are.' 
 
 They had reached an archway by the side of the 
 carriage drive, and, imagining that it led to the 
 house, the Professor passed through, followed by 
 his sister and his daughter. 
 
 'Why, surely these are the stables,' said Miss 
 Hewitson, gazing severely about her.
 
 THE PROFESSOE AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 119 
 
 ' Your conjecture, I fancy, is correct,' observed 
 the Professor ; 'but if j^ou will remain here, I will 
 make inquiries. Doubtless there is some one in the 
 place.' 
 
 He approached an open door leading to a coach- 
 house, from which came the sound of voices. Look- 
 ing in quietly, he beheld two young men lounging 
 on the floor, and engaged in some absorbing game 
 of cards, while behind them lay a big sheep-dog 
 asleep. 
 
 ' Dick !' cried the younger of the two, suddenly 
 throwing his cards down, ' I saw you cheat that 
 time/ 
 
 ' Ha, ha !' exclaimed the other, with a good- 
 humoured laugh, ' I thought you were getting too 
 knowing, Master Charles. I'll show you, if you 
 like, how to do ' 
 
 * Would you kindly direct me, young gentlemen, 
 to the house V 
 
 Charles started to his feet on hearing the strange 
 voice of the Professor, while Dick quickly hid the 
 cards from view. They were saved, however, from 
 exhibiting further signs of surprise by the sheep- 
 dog waking, and rushing with a growl upon the 
 intruder. It would have done any friend of the
 
 120 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Professor's good — and particularly Phillips, wh(> 
 imagined that his old chum had been accumulating 
 learning at the expense of his muscles — to see the 
 agility which he displayed in his endeavours to 
 keep the dog at bay. Brandishing his umbrella, 
 which was one of those that by reason of their 
 shape seldom stray from their owners, he made 
 several passes at the dog, until Charles, who had 
 burst out laughing, at last recovered his composure 
 sufficiently to call it off. 
 
 ' If you will follow me,' he said, after apologizing 
 in an embarrassed manner for the animal's attack, 
 ' I will show you the front door of the house.' 
 
 As he passed through the archway, he came upon 
 Miss Hewitson and Omega. He looked confused at 
 the presence of these ladies, and would have turned 
 back had not the Professor at once endeavoured to 
 reassure him. 
 
 * This lady is my sister,' he said, ' and this m}' 
 daughter. I presume you, sir, are Mrs. Tenner's 
 son ?' 
 
 Charles nodded his head. 
 
 ' I am sure,' continued the Professor, ' they will 
 be greatly pleased to make your acquaintance.' 
 
 As Miss Hewitson held out her hand, Charles,
 
 THE PllOFESSOR A^'D HIS DAUGHTEES. 121 
 
 without lookiDg into her face, shook it, and mur- 
 mured ' How do you do V Having gone through 
 the same ceremony with Omega, who was rather 
 amused at his shyness, and could not help giving 
 utterance to a quiet laugh while she tendered 
 him her hand, he walked ahead until he brought 
 them in view of the principal doorway of the 
 house. 
 
 Women, especially when they have reached that 
 age when their charms are assuming an over-ripe- 
 ness (no gentler periphrase can be found), are apt to 
 regard all new female acquaintances with an eye of 
 doubt and suspicion, for wliich no definite explana- 
 tion can be given. Miss Hewitson, therefore, after 
 making a stately curtsey to Mrs. Venner, adopted a 
 stiff attitude towards her, as towards a woman who 
 was not to be treated with any cordiality until she 
 had thoroughly proved herself to be free from any 
 cause for distrust. 
 
 The Professor, having shaken hands very warmly 
 with the lady of the house, began delivering himself 
 of his thanks for her kind attention to Omega, when 
 Mrs. Venner interrupted him. 
 
 * Pray don't thank me any more,' she said, ' for 
 what was a very simple act. I doubt if I should
 
 122 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 have stopped to speak to her had I not been 
 attracted by the sad expression of her face.' 
 
 ' That is easily accounted for/ cried Miss He wit- 
 son, in a sharp, aggressive tone. ' She had been 
 guilty of a most atrocious ' 
 
 'My dear sister,' said the Professor, 'that has 
 been forgotten by all of us long ago. Meggy,' he 
 continued, ' go and speak to the lady.' 
 
 Meggy walked across the room to where Mrs. 
 Venner was sitting, and placed her hand in hers. 
 The action was full of grace, and Mrs. Venner, 
 touched by this show of confidence, stooped and 
 kissed the child's forehead. 
 
 * You must come and see me sometimes, and cheer 
 me up — will you V 
 
 Miss Hewitson, who was seated in a very upright, 
 uncomfortable position on her chair, and whose face 
 wore by no means its most amiable expression, here 
 saw an opportunity to put in a few words. 
 
 ' I dare say she can come now and then, if it 
 would give you any satisfaction to see her ; but I 
 must request that you will not indulge her. She 
 has not been accustomed to be indulo^ed.' 
 
 o 
 
 * I can quite understand that,' said Mrs. Yenner,
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 123 
 
 with a slight drawl, and looking Miss Hewitson 
 very straight in the face. 
 
 ' I do not consider it judicious to indulge children/ 
 continued the latter, knitting her brows. 'Her 
 father here' — -the Professor was vacantly gazing 
 into the distance^ so absorbed in his own mind as 
 to be unconscious of his surroundings — 'has no 
 idea how to manage children. He is weak, very 
 weak ' 
 
 * But you perhaps counterbalance his weakness.' 
 
 'If that is an insinuation that I am strict, I 
 admit it readily. I am not ashamed of what I 
 do.' 
 
 ' You have no need, I am sure.' 
 
 There was something in the tone in which these 
 words were uttered that roused Miss Hewitson's 
 anger. 
 
 ' I have no need,' she said sharply. ' My prin- 
 ciples will bear the closest inspection.' 
 
 ' I am very glad to hear it.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson scowled at these soft-spoken 
 words, and grasped her umbrella tightly. 
 
 ' It is not everyone,' she said, in a deliberately 
 suggestive tone, ' who can say the same. I have 
 never done anything that I had cause to blush for.'
 
 124 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 * It must be a great comfort to you to feel your- 
 self so good.' 
 
 ' It is a great comfort — although there are people 
 in this world who are past blushing for their acts.' 
 
 * Then there is an opportunity for yon to do your 
 blushing — on other people's accounts.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson grinned horribly. 
 
 ' Thank you, madam, thank you,' she said ; ' I am 
 mightily obliged to you. But in the case of some 
 people, I should be blushing all day long.' 
 
 * A very uncomfortable operation, and most unbe- 
 coming to your complexion.' 
 
 * You are exceedingly kind. My complexion is 
 as Nature made it.' 
 
 ' I can see that. Nature is sometimes a little 
 careless in her handiwork.' 
 
 * You are very good ! Really, it is a pity that so 
 very charming a woman as yourself, with so much 
 wit and grace, should voluntarily bury herself from 
 the world. People will whisper, you know.' 
 
 ' And old folks will listen.' 
 
 ' Yes — yes ; and the tales they hear, if extraor- 
 dinary, are sometimes true.' 
 
 ' That doesn^t matter ; they believe them all the 
 same. Poor creatures, they live upon tittle-tattle.*
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 125 
 
 'It's better to live upon it than be the subject 
 of it.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! these old, frumpish creatures are never 
 likely to be that. They are very strict — their 
 principles bear the closest inspection — they have 
 never done anything that they had cause to blush 
 for. No, no; they will never furnish scandal. 
 But pardon me, we are straying into a discussion 
 which is hardly right on the occasion of a friendly 
 visit.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson, who was choking with indigna- 
 tion, rose from her seat, and shook her brother so 
 vigorously that his reverie was broken in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 * We must go,' she said. 
 
 The Professor picked up his hat and umbrella, 
 and turned to Mrs. Venner. 
 
 *Your daughter has promised to come up here 
 occasionally,' she said, ' and cheer my solitude.' 
 
 'I am sure,' returned the Professor, shaking her 
 hand, 'you will find her an excellent little com- 
 panion.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson vouchsafed Mrs. Venner a curtsey, 
 far more stately and dignified than the one she had 
 made her half an hour previously, and, with her
 
 126 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 brother and niece, swept haughtily from the 
 room. 
 
 *As insolent a woman as ever breathed!' were 
 her first words on reaching the fresh air, and it was 
 in vain that the Professor, during the walk home- 
 wards, attempted to combat her opinion.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The pleasant summer weather was drawing to a 
 close, and with it Phillips's visit to his friend. He 
 had stayed much longer than he had intended, 
 because he had fallen so easily into the habits of 
 the family that he had come to consider himself as 
 almost a member of it. Thus he had lingered until 
 the approach of autumn before he felt it necessary 
 to announce his departure. The Professor was sur- 
 prised, and begged him to stay on, and even Miss 
 Hewitson and Mrs. Mappertree added their en- 
 treaties ; but Phillips saw that if he indefinitely 
 deferred his departure, he might never go at all, 
 and he therefore resolutely refused to abandon his 
 intention. 
 
 It was not until the thought of his actually leav- 
 ing them was present in their minds that the 
 inmates of the cottage became sensible of the loss 
 they would sustain by his departure.
 
 128 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 The children felt that a beloved playfellow, who 
 had the charming characteristic that he never orot 
 out of temper, would be taken from them ; the 
 Professor, that a spirit-cheering companion and 
 well-disposed critic would be no more by his side ; 
 and Miss Hewitson — what she felt was confided to 
 Mrs. Mappertree one evening when they were 
 taking a walk together under the light of the 
 moon. 
 
 ' Jane,' she said suddenty^ ' I thought my heart 
 could never be sensible to any of the softer emotions 
 again. As you know, once — ' here Miss Hewitson 
 broke off to give vent to a long-drawn sigh — ' once 
 I surrendered my affections, and time has not 
 blunted the memory of that happy period. Ah ! 
 Jane, what power there is in love !' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed !' said Mrs. Mappertree, wishing to 
 be sympathetic. ' I know poor Mappertree loved 
 me well before our marriage, and the quantity of 
 presents and knickknacks which he gave me, and 
 which might have furnished a jeweller's shop, on a 
 small scale of course, was marvellous. But after 
 our marriage his love cooled down considerably, 
 though I did all I could to make him happy, and 
 went even so far as to darn his stockings and work
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 121) 
 
 him a pair of slippers, with a pretty design of two 
 frogs playing a game of leap-frog on green of two 
 hues upon a yellow background, and with a lot of 
 beading.' 
 
 ' My heart was young then, Jane,' continued Miss 
 Hewitson, who, lost in her own thoughts, paid no 
 attention to her friend's rambling remarks, ' and I 
 may have been too hasty in giving love an entrance ; 
 but I am older now, and can withstand any sudden 
 assault. If love grows weaker as we grow older, it 
 is not so likely to be given without a fair exchange. 
 Until, therefore, I knew Mr. Phillips ' 
 
 * Mr. Phillips ? exclaimed Mrs. Mappertree. 
 
 * Yes ; I will confess to you I regard him with 
 not unfavourable impressions.' 
 
 ' But I thought you disliked him ?* 
 
 * I was somewhat blind to his merits at first, I 
 admit ; but I have come to see his many excellent 
 qualities. He is a generous, high-minded man ; and 
 his appearance, if not handsome, is at least striking 
 and full of a certain air of dignified honesty.* 
 
 ' But he has never given you any occasion to 
 believe ' 
 
 * I know what you mean, and that is why I said 
 that middle-aged people do not acknowledge their 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 love without being assured of a fair exchange. He 
 has given me no cause to believe I have made any 
 impression on his heart — and I am too well versed 
 in the ways of love not to be able to detect its 
 presence — and, therefore^ I must conceal my own 
 favourable opinion of him. He leaves us in a few 
 days, and I cannot deny that I shall feel his absence; 
 but he will come here again, and who knows but 
 that he may have changed his ideas about our sex, 
 and may settle here altogether !' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree prudently abstained from ex- 
 pressing her opinion that Phillips was a confirmed 
 bachelor, and not likely to fall under the influence 
 of her friend's charms, and left Miss Hewitson to 
 indulge her fancy to its full extent. 
 
 The day before Phillips's departure was so bright 
 and warm, that, after dinner had been despatched, 
 and a bottle of excellent currant wine had been 
 opened to drink to the safe and speedy journey of 
 their guest on the morrow, the family adjourned 
 in a body to the garden to enjoy the last few 
 generous beams of the summer sun. The Pro- 
 fessor took with him a mouldj^-looking copy of 
 Epictetus with which to regale his leisure, and
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 131 
 
 Miss Hewitson a wondrous piece of needlework, 
 which was intended, when finished, to adorn the 
 back of a chair. Mrs. Mappertree provided herself 
 with that never-failing source of interest 'The 
 Anatomy of Melancholy ;' while Phillips was con- 
 tent with a newspaper and his well-blackened briar. 
 The two girls, with Pip at their heels, speedily 
 stole away to inveigle Humphrey into a game of 
 hide-and-seek; for the young do not seem to need 
 that quiet half-hour after dinner which their 
 elders find so necessary to complete the digestive 
 process. 
 
 *I do not think, my good friend,' said the Pro- 
 fessor, as Phillips lighted his pipe, * I do not think 
 I have omitted to bring forward any subject that 
 I was desirous of having your opinion upon before 
 you left us. As regards the principal subject which 
 had engaged our attention since you came here — 
 the work upon which I am engaged — I do not think 
 there is anything to be added ' 
 
 * No. The only thing I want to impress upon 
 you is to stick to it and get it finished.' 
 
 ' Ah, my good friend, the work is a great one, and 
 necessarily demands much cogitation and delibera- 
 tion. It is not to be hurriedly dashed off" like a 
 
 9—2
 
 132 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 pseudo-learned essay, but to be pursued steadily and 
 deliberately. It is a work not to be undertaken 
 except by one who combines the necessary learning 
 with much perseverance and discrimination, and I, 
 perchance, am scarcely iSt ' 
 
 * If you cannot do it, no one else can. No, no ; 
 you must stick closely to it, and in two or three 
 years we will startle the world with it.' 
 
 A flush of pride passed over the face of the Pro- 
 fessor, and, closing the volume of Epictetus upon 
 his forefinger, he leant back in his seat and was 
 soon absorbed in a sweet vision of the world's 
 surprise and delight over the publication of his 
 great work. 
 
 The silence that followed was speedily broken by 
 a violent exclamation from Phillips, which made 
 the ladies look up in alarm. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, ladies, but here's a fool of a 
 judge — excuse me, I can't be calm when I think 
 what kind of men are shoved on the bench 
 nowadays — but here's a judge who shows himself 
 absolutely wanting in all judicial qualities. It is a 
 matter of constant regret with me that my career at 
 the bar was cut so short, and the regret is much 
 deepened when I read these reports of judicial
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 133 
 
 incapacity. Now, the first requisites in a judge are 
 an even temper that nothing can ruffle, a bright 
 cheery good-nature, and a polished manner.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson smiled. Was it possible that 
 Phillips could imagine himself possessed of these 
 characteristics ? 
 
 ^Of course,' continued Phillips, 'a knowledge of 
 law and an impartial spirit are also necessary. But 
 you won't find one judge out of six who can 
 honestly lay claim to all these qualifications. Ah ! 
 but for m}'- old uncle's interference, I might by this 
 time have been on the bench myself.' 
 
 * But think of the responsibility of condemning a 
 fellow-creature to death,' said Miss Hewitson, casting 
 towards him a soft glance. 
 
 ' Well,' exclaimed Phillips loudl}^ ' if he merited 
 death, I would sentence him without compunction 
 — yes, even if my best friend were the culprit. If 
 your brother had committed a bloodthirsty murder 
 and were brought before me, do you think I would 
 screen him from the consequences of his act ? No ; 
 he should hang !' 
 
 Poor Professor ! As he sat with a happy smile 
 upon his face and his eyes turned inwards looking 
 upon the pleasing vision he had conjured up in his
 
 134 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 imagination, v/bo could view him in the light of a 
 possible bloodthirsty murderer ? 
 
 * Ah !' said Mrs. Mappertree, looking up from her 
 book with an expression of intense misery, ' I re- 
 member well, when my father was High Sheriff — 
 and I was a young, light-hearted girl — before I had 
 ever seen Mappertree, or had indeed thought of 
 getting married and leaving Boodle Hall, and the 
 horses and dogs to whom I was much attached, and 
 who would follow me anywhere if I had a piece of 
 bread in my pocket, and the ducks, too, whom I fed 
 with my own hand ' 
 
 ' Well, did your father hang them before eating 
 them V asked Miss Hewitson tartly. 
 
 *No, no,' answered Mrs. Mappertree, shaking her 
 head gloomily ; ' but, being High Sheriff, he had to 
 be present at the execution of a man who had shot 
 his sweetheart with an old horse-pistol, and had cut 
 her up into small pieces ' 
 
 ' For goodness' sake, Jane,' exclaimed Miss Hewit- 
 son, 'do keep these horrid reminiscences to yourself!' 
 
 ^I only wished to observe that my father saw 
 him hanged, though indeed he died very quickly, 
 for his windpipe was broken ' 
 
 At this moment Alpha came running up to tell
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 135 
 
 them that Mrs. Venner's carriage had driven up to 
 the door ; and presently Mrs. Venner herself, con- 
 ducted by Omega, appeared in the doorway leading 
 to the garden. The Professor gallantly rose and 
 went to meet her, while Phillips knocked the ashes 
 out of his pipe and put it furtively in his pocket. 
 Mrs. Mappertree closed her book, giving a sigh as if 
 to record her protest at being interrupted in her 
 melancholy reading; and Miss Hewitson braced 
 herself up to meet a woman whom she looked upon 
 as a deadly, sharp-tongued enemy. 
 
 ' Meggy has not been to see me lately,' said Mrs. 
 Venner, as she took the professor^s seat, 'and, 
 fearing she might be ill, I have taken the liberty of 
 calling to inquire. But I see my fears were ground- 
 less. Why haven't you been to see me, Meggy ?' 
 she asked, turning to the child. 
 
 * That is easily explained/ said Miss Hewitson, 
 giving a piercing glance at Mrs. Venner. * I con- 
 sidered that her lessons would suffer by too frequent 
 visits. Besides,' she added^ in a marked tone, ' I am 
 not desirous of my teachings becoming superseded 
 by a new influence.' 
 
 ' You are very thoughtful,' said Mrs. Venner 
 calmly, 'and I can well unJerstanl from your long
 
 136 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 experience how excellent your teachings must be- 
 Be sure I shall not attempt to vitiate them.' 
 
 The sly reference to her age^- delivered under the 
 guise of a compliment^ and in an accentuated tone 
 of courtesy, stung Miss Hewitson sharply ; but, as 
 she could think of no scathing retort at the moment, 
 she mentally reserved her right to return the dig 
 imtil Mrs. Venner should lay herself open to attack. 
 To turn the conversation into a new channel, she 
 looked towards the Professor, and said : 
 
 ' Why don't you sit down, brother V 
 
 * Oh ! I will stand, I will stand,' answered the 
 Professor blithely, though he longed for a seat. 
 
 * You shall not !' exclaimed Miss Hewitson. ' I 
 know very well that standing makes you very tired- 
 Humphrey,' she cried, as the man-servant appeared 
 by the house, ' fetch another chair, and then make 
 the tea.' 
 
 The Professor, as soon as he was accommodated 
 with a chair, turned to Mrs. Venner. 
 
 'My daughter,' said he, 'has amused us much 
 with her accounts of the wonders she is made ac- 
 quainted with in 3'our house. She is by no means 
 untutored, though my occupations are such as to 
 leave me but scant leisure to attend to her educa-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 137 
 
 tion, which is entrusted to the charge of this 
 excellent lady, Mrs. Mappertree. Meggy has a quick 
 perception, and in a strong measure possesses the 
 childlike hankering after new knowledge. I doubt 
 not she has put many questions to you on the 
 numerous things that have attracted her attention 
 in your house V 
 
 'You are right,' said Mrs. Venner. 'She is un- 
 ceasing in her questions, which for the most part I 
 must confess I am unable to answer. I am terribly 
 ignorant.' 
 
 ' That is indeed a pity,' said Miss Hewitson drily, 
 ' especially when information is solicited from you !' 
 
 'At least I confess my ignorance frankly/ said 
 Mrs. Venner, laughing, as though undesirous of 
 seeing any offence in Miss Hewitson^s words, 'and 
 that is something, is it not ? I assure you I regret 
 it deeply ; for my son, who has hitherto looked to 
 me for instruction, is growing beyond me in know- 
 ledge. I am very anxious to get some suitable 
 person in this neighbourhood to superintend his 
 further studies. I only know of one such per- 
 son.' 
 
 'You mean my brother?' asked Miss Hewitson 
 sharply.
 
 138 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ' I do, and I should feel under a very great obliga- 
 tion to him if he would undertake the task.' 
 
 ' My brother has no leisure for such a thing/ ex- 
 claimed Miss Hewitson. 
 
 ' There is the work to be finished/ said Phillips, 
 in an undertone. 
 
 ' I know I am asking a favour/ said Mrs. Venner, 
 whose customary haughtiness of manner was re- 
 turning under Miss Hewitson's curt behaviour. 
 * But I do not ask it for nothing — I am quite pre- 
 pared to make a suitable return for it.' 
 
 ' My brother, thank Heaven ! has no need of 
 anybody's money while I remain under his roof.' 
 Miss Hewitson was under the impression that her 
 sixty pounds a year contributed in no small measure 
 to the maintenance of the household, and that, so 
 long as it was not withdrawn, her brother might 
 snap his fingers at poverty. 
 
 ^ My dear sister,' said the Professor, in a gentle 
 manner, ' I see no reason to take offence at this lady's 
 offer; rather, I think, should we return her our 
 thanks.' 
 
 ' Fiddlesticks !' 
 
 * Indeed,' continued the Professor, unheeding his 
 sister's contemptuous exclamation, ' I feel that in
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 139 
 
 offering me the post of instructor to her only child, 
 Mrs. Venner is paying me a very high compliment ; 
 for it is but natural that she should select for that 
 important office no one in whom she could not repose 
 the most implicit confidence.' 
 
 ' You at least understand me, sir,' said Mrs. 
 Venner, inclining her head towards the Professor. 
 
 ' At the same time ' 
 
 ' Have you allowed the tea to stand long enough, 
 Humphrey ?' asked MissHewitson.as the man-servant 
 placed the tea-things before her. 
 
 * Yes, ma'am.' 
 
 ' I hope I may persuade you to take a cup, ma'am,' 
 said Miss Hewitson to Mrs. Venner, with an affecta- 
 tion of courtesy. 
 
 'Thank you.' 
 
 The tea was found insufficient to go round, and 
 Humphrey was despatched for more water. The Pro- 
 fessor thought this a good opportunity to resume 
 his remarks. 
 
 'At the same time, Mrs. Venner ' 
 
 * Sugar and milk, ma'am?' asked Miss Hewitson, 
 in the same affected tone. 
 
 'Thank you.' 
 
 ' And you, Mr. Phillips V
 
 140 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTI IS. 
 
 ' Thanks/ 
 
 ' You were going to observe, brother ' 
 
 ' At the same time, Mrs. Venner, much as I should 
 wish to gratify your request ' 
 
 * Jane, my dear, your tea.' 
 
 *But you haven't any yourself,' said Mrs. Map- 
 pertree, seeing that the small teapot was again 
 emptied. 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't mind me. There's yours, brother.' 
 
 * Much as I should wish to gratify you, madam/ 
 repeated the Professor, stirring his tea and gazing 
 
 at the eddying surface thoughtfully,/ I feel that 
 
 the tea looks somewhat weak, Priscilla.' 
 
 *I have put the usual quantity in the pot. I 
 cannot exceed it because there happens to be an 
 exceptional number to drink it. Is it to your 
 liking, Mr. Phillips f 
 
 ' Oh yes, capital stuff!' exclaimed Phillips, finish- 
 ing his cup at one gulp. 
 
 ' I am delighted that I have been able to please 
 you. Perhaps you would like a second cup ? No ? 
 Humphrey, fetch some more water, in case anyone 
 may like a second cup. You were saying, brother ' 
 
 ' Really, I forget Ah ! I feel, madam, that I 
 
 should be making too great a demand upon my
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 141 
 
 time were I to become your son's instructor. I 
 have a work in hand ' 
 
 ' That's right !' exclaimed Phillips. ' Don't forget 
 it ! A work that will startle the world !' 
 
 ' My friend, madam, is pleased to rate it highly. 
 But whether or no it is deserving of such praise, it 
 engrosses a very large part of my time, and, were I 
 to accept your offer, I fear ' 
 
 ' But surely, you could spare an hour or two 
 twice a week,' said Mrs. Venner pleadingly. 
 
 * Remember the work,' muttered Phillips. 
 
 ' It is not a great demand, truly — an hour or two 
 twice a week — but I fear ' 
 
 ' I do not ask you to begin at once. Say, at the 
 beginning of next year — or the spring ' 
 
 ' Remember the work !' 
 
 ' Well, well, I must think it over — I will not give 
 you an answer at once. If I can arrange it — con- 
 sistently with the due prosecution of the work T have 
 spoken of — I will meet your wishes, I promise 
 you.' 
 
 ' Will anyone have any more tea V asked Miss 
 Hewitson grimly, for she was annoyed at her 
 brother's weakness in not firmly refusing Mrs. 
 Venner's request. No one having the courage to
 
 142 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 accept the proffered cup, Humphrey was summoned 
 to take away the tea-things. 
 
 Mrs. Yenner now rose, and, with a grateful look 
 at the Professor and a stiff bow to Miss Hewitson, 
 who returned it with one equally stiff, took her 
 leave. 
 
 On the following mornings a car was at the door 
 to take Phillips to the station. There was much 
 bustling in the house ; for while the Professor was 
 haunting all the passages and rooms in his excite- 
 ment at his friend's departure and was continually 
 getting in the way of the others, Miss Hewitson 
 was rushing backwards and forwards to and from 
 the front door, bearing with her big packages of 
 sandwiches, biscuits, and other eatables, to stave off 
 hunger during the journey. 
 
 At last the moment for departure arrived. The 
 Professor held both of his friend's hands between 
 his own, while the tears in his eyes and the twitch- 
 ings of his face plainly showed his emotion. 
 
 *You must come again soon,' he cried. 'God 
 bless you, Phillips !' 
 
 ' Good-bye, old fellow. I will come again soon, 
 and — mind you get on with the work.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson now approached Phillips, and
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 143 
 
 slipped a little volume into his hands. He glanced 
 at the title ; it was Clutterbuck's ' Holy Words of 
 Counsel.' 
 
 'Read it sometimes,' she said, in a low voice, 
 * and think of us.' 
 
 And, amid a waving of hands and a chorus of 
 good wishes, he was gone.
 
 BOOK III 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Seven years of becalmed existence passed over the 
 heads of the occupants of the cottage — a period 
 which was unchequered by any event of importance, 
 and which seemed to the older members of the 
 family to have passed with incredible swiftness. In 
 the interval, however, one familiar figure had 
 passed away from the scene ; for Pip^ after having 
 attained a venerable age, had died a natural death, 
 and been buried with much solemnity in a remote 
 corner of the garden. 
 
 As Time journeyed along with his noiseless 
 tread, his invisible hands traced upon each member 
 of the household the visible marks of his presence. 
 The Professor stooped more than ever, and walked 
 with slower and more measured steps. His hair 
 was almost wholly white, and hung in long strag- 
 gling locks round his head ; his eyes were dim and 
 lustreless, and his face was scored with wrinkles. 
 
 10—2
 
 148 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 In a less degree, Miss Hewitson and Mrs. Mapper- 
 tree showed the results of Time's decaying touch, 
 though the former still bore herself with the up- 
 riorht carriao-e and severe demeanour of old. 
 
 Upon the two girls, the effect was much as the 
 sun's action upon the ripening fruit — they had 
 emerged into glorious womanhood. Both were 
 attractive, but attractive from different points of 
 view. The clear pale complexion of Alpha, lit up 
 by soft grey eyes that betokened a tenderness 
 rather than a brightness of nature, was contrasted 
 with Omega's ruddy cheeks and vivacious brown 
 eyes. The one was statuesque, wanting somewhat 
 in expression, and calm and placid in temperament ; 
 the other alive with emotion, and warm of heart as 
 she was warm of temper. 
 
 The season of joy had come to both; emancipated 
 from the thraldom of the schoolroom, they were 
 about to taste of the pleasures that belong to the 
 outside world. Young hearts, full of health and 
 faith, regard their journey upon the stream of life 
 without fear or trembling. They see the broad 
 bosom of the stream, sparkling in the sunlight, 
 and rushing past scenes of infinite beauty. Who 
 cares to tell them of the rocks lying beneath the
 
 THE PROFESSOE AITD HIS DAUGHTEES. 149 
 
 current that have wrecked many a noble ship as 
 well stored as theirs ? Who will take upon him- 
 self to speak freely — to warn the young of the 
 dangers that attend the first years of freedom from 
 the tutelage of others ? It is a task that every man 
 shrinks from, and the young go forth, unarmoured 
 and full of confidence, into a world of fraud, 
 treachery, and deceit ! 
 
 The two girls, though they passed much time 
 together, had little in common, and their afifection 
 did not prevent them from having frequent differ- 
 ences, which, however, were speedily healed. 
 Neither had ever been away from home, and con- 
 stant companionship had displayed to each the 
 divergencies of character in the other. 
 
 Omega considered Alpha slow, and much too 
 good for a young girl just making her appearance 
 before a critical world — though the world as yet 
 was confined to a very circumscribed area around 
 the humble cottage in which they dwelt. Being 
 merely a healthy young woman herself, with 
 femininely ambitious views, and that feeling of 
 careless indifference towards religion in the abstract 
 that frequently springs up in young minds from a 
 surfeit of texts, catechisms, and church-going in
 
 150 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 childhood, she looked upon Alpha's real piety as 
 rather unnatural, and objectionable in so far as it 
 interfered with their sisterly relations. Alpha, on 
 the other hand, felt that her sister was lacking in 
 that moral ballast which is so necessar}'- to steady 
 one in sailing over the seas of life, and more than 
 once had addressed Omega with a seriousness 
 unusual in so young a girl. She had charged her 
 sister in a grave tone with harbouring a discon- 
 tented spirit in her breast, which showed itself in 
 occasional fits of sullen languor ; and Omeo^a had 
 laughingly confessed to the truth of the charge. 
 She had confessed that she found her home some- 
 what dull, and felt a longing to penetrate into the 
 great, busy, pleasure-seeking world of which she 
 had sometimes read. 
 
 There was nothing very unnatural in this desire. 
 Neither Miss Hewitson nor Mrs. Mappertree were 
 pleasant company; and the Professor himself, 
 though loving as ever, was quite unable to under- 
 stand the nature or administer to the varying needs 
 of a young girl approaching maturity. Miss 
 Hewitson had long ceased to exercise any authority 
 over the girl, for the very excellent reason that it 
 was denied and set at nouorht.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 151 
 
 'I wash my hands of her,' she had said, ia a 
 tragic tone, as though her words were full of 
 ominous import; 'if she comes to grief, I am free 
 from all blame.' 
 
 Meggy, being thus left to her own ends, spent 
 much of her time away from home. When she 
 was not with Mrs. Venner, she was generally to be 
 found at the cottage of one of the neighbouring 
 peasants, with whom, from her kindness of heart 
 and generosity, she was a great favourite. 
 
 Mrs. Venner had taken a strong fancy to Omega, 
 and was constantl}'' pressing for her company, 
 which Omega was nothing loath to give, as it took 
 her away from the dulness at home. Then, too, she 
 had an opportunity of listening to Mrs. Venner's 
 stories of fashionable life, which that lady related 
 with considerable zest when she saw what interest 
 they afforded to the young girl beside her. With 
 much dramatic force, gained from the perusal of 
 novels of passion of which she was very fond, did 
 she narrate these stories — not always unexception- 
 able on the score of morality. They were, how- 
 ever, intensely interesting to Omega, and helped to 
 foster in her mind the desire to be herself a denizen of 
 that world wherein such stirring events took place.
 
 152 THE PEOFESSOU AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 At the cottage, the lapse of time had brought but 
 few changes, and these had arisen chiefly from a 
 wish on the part of Miss Hewitson to make a greater 
 show in the county. 
 
 'Really, brother,' she had said, addressing the 
 Professor one evening, when, the duties of the day 
 being performed, the family were enjoying a few 
 minutes of enlivening conversation before going to 
 bed — * Really, brother, I think it is time we took 
 our proper position in the county. Your daughters 
 are growing up ; we must mix a little more with 
 our neighbours.' 
 
 ' My dear sister,' replied the Professor, ' in these 
 matters I am entirely in your hands, and I am 
 willing to act as you may think proper, though I 
 have myself some disinclination to change from the 
 secluded grub into the social butterfly. I have 
 some doubt as to my being fitted by nature to shine 
 in social gatherings, where lightness of conversation 
 and pleasing manners are essential to success ; but 
 I have no right to think of my own inclinations or 
 disinclinations when it is a matter affecting my 
 children's happiness.' 
 
 'It is quite evident,' said Miss Hewitson, 'that
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 153 
 
 we cannot visit our acquaintances unless we have a 
 conveyance of some sort.' 
 
 * My dear ' 
 
 * Oh, don't be alarmed ! A pony-chaise would be 
 quite sufficient.' 
 
 ' But our income, my dear sister, only now suffices 
 to meet our simple wants ; and how we are ' 
 
 * Jane and I have been going into calculations, 
 and we have come to the conclusion that the project 
 is quite feasible.' 
 
 Mrs. Hewitson turned for corroboration to Mrs. 
 Mappertree, who nodded her head in a gloomy 
 manner, and said : 
 
 * Yes ; we have taken everything into considera- 
 tion, including a livery for Humphrey with twelve 
 brass buttons, which will last him, I am sure, four 
 or five years if he is careful and only wears it on 
 fine days, and doesn't forget to fold it up and put it 
 away after he has used it, and if he is told that it 
 will be stopped out of his wages if he ' 
 
 * Quite so, quite so, Mrs. Mappertree ' 
 
 * Jane !' cried Miss Hewitson, interrupting her 
 brother, * you are getting worse and worse ; your 
 tongue wags like a pendulum when you once set it 
 going.'
 
 154 THE PROFESSOE, AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree allowed a tear to roll to the 
 point of her nose, where it hung as a mute expres- 
 sion of her wounded spirit. 
 
 ' I have calculated,' said Miss Hewitson, turning 
 to her brother, ' that if your money was invested in 
 Senegambian Bonds instead of Consols, your income 
 would be at least doubled ' 
 
 ' But are you sure they are safe V 
 
 * As safe as the Bank ! I have made a thorough 
 inquiry, and I am quite satisfied on that point. 
 Well, with the income that will be produced from 
 these bonds, together with the amount you receive 
 from Mrs. Yenner, and my own income, we can 
 easily afford to keep a pony-chaise and receive com- 
 pany occasionally.* 
 
 The Professor was easily persuaded to assent to 
 this scheme, especially as he hoped it would be 
 very acceptable to his daughters ; and, within a few 
 weeks, the pony-chaise was an accomplished fact. 
 Humphrey, who could do everything but drop his 
 habit of using bad language, was installed as coach- 
 man, and dressed in a modest drab-coloured livery 
 a size or two too big for him, so that there might 
 be material at hand whenever any repairs were 
 necessary.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 155 
 
 It was a proud day for Miss Hewitson when she 
 took her first drive in the pony-chaise, and, reclining 
 in her seat, nodded languidly in answer to the salu- 
 tations of the passers-by. The Professor, too, keenly 
 enjoj^ed the pleasing motion of the carriage, and 
 after a time ventured to take the reins into his own 
 hands. There was no accident — only, after travel- 
 ling along some distance in a very deviating course, 
 as though the pony could not make up its mind on 
 which side of the road to travel, the gallant little 
 animal suddenly whisked his tail over the reins and 
 started off at full speed. Xo harm was done, though, 
 as Miss Hewitson afterwards said, it was a mercy 
 that they had been spared, and, from that time 
 forward, the Professor was content to drive by 
 deputy. 
 
 In pursuance of her design, Miss Hewitson gave 
 several little entertainments at the cottage, in which 
 an abundance of weak tea, buns, caraway biscuits, 
 and such-like toothsome fare figured. The black 
 silk dress, which had reposed peacefully in her box 
 upstairs for the past ten years, made its appearance 
 on these occasions, and, with her stiffest and most 
 threatening cap, gave Miss Hewitson a haughty 
 expression which perhaps operated quite as much as
 
 156 THE PEOPESSOK AND HIS DAUGHTEES. 
 
 the tea and biscuits to deter her friends from 
 accepting a second invitation. On such days as 
 these, Miss Hewitson gave strict injunctions for the 
 door of the Professor's study to be locked, so that 
 her brother might not be tempted, as had been once 
 the case, to leave the company furtively, and bury 
 himself among his books. 
 
 The Professor, indeed, showed excessive amiability 
 in his desire to aiford gratification to his sister and 
 his daughters. He even went so far as to accept an 
 invitation to dine with some new acquaintances 
 who lived in the neighbouring parish ; but his 
 absence of mind made him cut so ridiculous a 
 figure among them, that no solicitation could induce 
 him to repeat the experiment. The Professor, it 
 would appear, on arriving at the house received a 
 candle from one of the servants, and was shown 
 into a bedroom to wash his hands and adjust his 
 dress. When the dinner was on the table, the host, 
 wondering what could keep his visitor so long in his 
 room, sent a servant npstairs to make inquiries, 
 when it was discovered that the poor gentleman, in 
 a fit of abstraction, had undressed himself and gone 
 to bed. The Professor, proof against many things, 
 was not proof against ridicule, and he blushed for
 
 THE PROFESSOE, AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 157 
 
 many years afterwards like a painted cherub when- 
 ever the story was mentioned. 
 
 It will thus be seen that Miss Hewitson's scheme, 
 though well conceived, did not meet with that 
 success which should have attended it. She had 
 exerted herself to the utmost, but it was evident 
 she could neither compel her brother to eat dinners 
 away from home, nor force reluctant neighbours to 
 do honour to her own invitations. To the girls 
 this was not a matter to occasion any regret, inas- 
 much as most of the gentlemen in the neighbour- 
 hood had seen a good many years of life, and were 
 not disposed to be thrown into raptures at the sight 
 of two pretty young women ; but to Miss Hewitson, 
 who had looked forward to receiving much homage 
 and becoming a local celebrity, it was a source of 
 much bitterness, which she had some difficulty in 
 concealing within her own bosom.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The two sisters had reached a season when it i& 
 supposed that Love is always hovering somewhere 
 near the heart, though he may not have actually 
 found a lodgment. It is the delicious calm which 
 precedes the storm. The winds are gathering for a 
 mischievous rush ; the clouds are assuming a por- 
 tentous hue ; the now becalmed ship will soon be 
 driven through the waters by the fury of the gale. 
 
 What idea on earth can be more charming to the 
 imagination than that of a virgin heart awaiting 
 the approach of Love ! The maid herself, though 
 she be somewhat fearful of his coming, has yet a 
 thousand times in dreams pictured to herself his 
 bright presence. When he comes she will give him 
 a timid greeting, as one who was expected, but — 
 whose presence startles. But, as yet^ she merely 
 dreams of him as of a delicious happiness to come. 
 
 So it was with the two sisters. Neither of them
 
 THE PEOFESSOE AND HIS DATJGHTEES. 159 
 
 had yet felt young Cupid tugging at her heart- 
 strings, but both had pictured to themselves the 
 joyful time when his tuneful voice should be heard 
 crying, 'Here I am, the Love of whom you have 
 dreamed ! Let me in !' 
 
 And yet there was a difference in the form of 
 their visions which might have been expected from 
 their different natures. Alpha — the calm and 
 discreet — thought quite as much of the future home 
 of which she would be mistress as of the partner 
 who would share it with her; while Omega — the 
 passionate and warm-hearted — confined her thoughts 
 entirely to the lover in whose arms she would 
 realize the highest earthly happiness. 
 
 Her naturally fervid temperament was probably 
 stimulated by the novels she read at Mrs. Venner's, 
 which, being written by ladies whose imaginations 
 led them somewhat beyond the actual experiences of 
 life, treated love in so romantic and passionate a 
 manner, that the perusal could scarcely help stirring 
 up the blood of an unsophisticated reader. 
 
 Meggy's ideal lover was to come and woo her with 
 the warmth that was a characteristic of the gallant 
 heroes of these delightful works ; and it would be 
 her part — with scarcely the preamble of a flirtation
 
 160 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 — to entrust her heart to his keeping, and to love 
 him with a singleness of purpose that neither time, 
 nor friends, nor anything else should abate. 
 
 The features of this ideal hero, who was ever 
 present to Megg}^ in her solitary moments, had at 
 first no determinate form ; but, with the progress of 
 time, and in a perfectly natural manner, they began 
 to assume a strong resemblance to those of her 
 father's pupil, Charles Yenner. She could not help 
 meeting him when he came to the cottage, or when 
 she herself visited at Pengwern Park ; and, as he 
 was the only j^oung man with whom she had any 
 intimacy, it was most natural that she should com- 
 plete her love-dream by bringing him into it as the 
 hero. His slight frame and delicate though regular 
 features certainly did not quite accord with the 
 pattern of heroes presented in the novels — which 
 was that of a tall muscular man, whose arms nearly 
 squeezed the breath out of the poor fluttering 
 heroine when he caught her to his breast — but, as 
 Meggy knew no one of this class, it was not her 
 fault that she had to be content with a less heroic 
 person. 
 
 Charles, on his part, knew nothing of the honour 
 that was being paid to him, and gave no encourage-
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 10 1 
 
 ment to Omega's peculiar fanc}^ It was not that 
 he was blind to her charms; but that, during their 
 long acquaintance, lie had never conceived the idea 
 of one day falling in love with her. If she had 
 been a stranger_, presented to him for the first time, 
 lie would probably have fallen an instant victim to 
 her beauty ; but the gradual growth of their in- 
 timacy from childhood to manhood had made it 
 possible for him to look upon her with an un- 
 moved heart. 
 
 Omega kept her secret locked up in her own 
 breast, not daring even to breathe it to her sister, 
 though she found it a heavy task to keep such a 
 sweet fancy entirely to herself. Her only resource 
 was to retire to her own room, and, standinsf before 
 the mirror, a position she was very fond of, to 
 address her image as though it were a dear friend, 
 on whose fidelity she could place full reliance. Ah ! 
 what tender and thrilling confidences passed between 
 this young girl and the dark-haired, rosy-cheeked 
 apparition that faced her ! 
 
 But, in spite of her secrecy, there was one person 
 in the Professor's household who had an inkling of 
 the true facts of the case. 
 
 Miss Hewitson had from the first conceived the 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 THE PROFESSOR AIsD HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 possibility of Charles Yenner falling in love with 
 one of his tutor's daughters ; and, keeping a close 
 scrutiny upon them, did not fail to observe indica- 
 tions of Ornega^s state of mind. She was so proud 
 of her discovery — which was a conclusive proof of 
 her marvellous acquaintance with all the minute 
 evidences of the tender passion that she at once 
 communicated it to her brother. The Professor, 
 deeply engaged at the moment in his studies, re- 
 ceived the intelligence with a contemptuous 'Pooh T 
 which filled Miss Hewitson with such indignation 
 that she determined never to address another word 
 to him on the subject. Thus it was that Omega's 
 youthful fancy was allowed to take deep root in her. 
 without receiving any check from the one person 
 who could control her ; but as yet it was without 
 the one great factor that would make it really 
 langerous. Her heart was like a funeral pile ; the 
 straw was there, and the wood was there, but it 
 wanted the flame — the kiss of a lover — to set it 
 ablaze. 
 
 Omega, as has been stated, was very much in 
 the company of Mrs. Venner. That lady found a 
 strange satisfaction in having the young girl by her 
 side, and filling her with scraps from her OAvn
 
 THE PKOFESSOE AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 168 
 
 store of worldly wisdom. The experiences of her 
 youth had given a very cynical turn to her mind, 
 and her ideas on many subjects were expressed 
 with a bitterness that caused Omega to wonder 
 whether such were the ideas ordinarily held 
 among people of fashion. But Mrs. Venner, when- 
 ever she had been led into uttering any very bitter 
 remarks, wisely tempered the effect on her listener 
 by proceeding to recount some reminiscences of 
 her early life in the fashionable world, which she 
 knew were eagerly received by Meggy. 
 
 She took especial care that her visitor should 
 never be a witness to her occasional outbursts of 
 rage against her son ; and this was the more easily 
 effected by her forbidding Charles to enter the 
 room whenever her young friend was with her- 
 It is difficult to account for her strange attachment 
 to Meggy, and it must be left as a problem for the 
 reader's ingenuity to work out. Perhaps she recog- 
 nised in the girl a nature akin to her own before 
 her unfortunate marriage had embittered her nature, 
 and wished to have the satisfaction of rendering 
 Meggy proof against after-assaults of the world by 
 implanting some of her own cynical philosophy into 
 her receptive young mind. 
 
 11—2
 
 164 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 One afternoon in early spring, when the tiees 
 were putting forth their tender green leaves, and 
 the fields and woodside were redolent with th'^ 
 sweet smell of wild flowers, Meggy bade goodbye 
 to Mrs. Venner, and started homewards. As she 
 passed the stables she was confronted by Charles 
 aud his satellite, Dick Revell, who were going to 
 visit the horses. Charles stopped and took her 
 hand, and, without any concern, for her answer, 
 asked her if she would accompany him. 
 
 Meggy was quite willing, and they entered the 
 stables, followed by the obsequious Dick, who re- 
 garded them with a somewhat contemptuous smile. 
 Dick had not altered much in the seven years, 
 except that his sharp, cunning features wore a 
 rather dissipated look, mingled with an expression 
 of good-natured tolerance for everything and every- 
 body. His movements were executed with an 
 affected indolence of manner, which was meant to 
 express to all onlookers his entire satisfaction with 
 himself, and his utter disdain for everybody else. 
 He managed still to retain his old influence over his 
 young master, though in doing so he had to exhibit 
 tact and ability of a very high order. 
 
 * I am very much obliged to you/ said Meggy,
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 165 
 
 after the inspection of the horses was over. ' They 
 are very handsome animals.' 
 
 ' You must come and look at them again some 
 other day.' 
 
 'I should like to so much/ she replied, looking at 
 him archly, ' only I am afraid I should be giving 
 you too much trouble, or taking you away from a 
 pleasanter occupation.' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Charles, laughing. ' In this dull 
 place one's occupations are not so numerous as to 
 leave one no leisure.' 
 
 * Do you find it very dull here ?' Omega asked, 
 glad of a topic to lengthen the conversation. 
 
 ' Well, now, don't you yourself? Though you 
 have your father and the others to help you to pass 
 the time, while I have no one.' 
 
 * But your mother ' 
 
 * Oh, she's no company for me. If you put a cat 
 and a dog together in a basket, they would be quite 
 as good company as my mother and I.' 
 
 Omega smiled at the tone in which he spoke. 
 
 ' Well/ she said, after a pause, ' I can under- 
 stand your feeling well; for, in spite of my father 
 and the others, I must own to feeling dull some- 
 times.'
 
 166 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 * We are much in the same unhappy position, 
 then/ 
 
 ' Yes, it seems so.' Then she added, ^ith a laugh 
 which did not hide a blush, * It is a pity I am only 
 a girl, or I could come and give you ray company 
 occasionally.' 
 
 Charles laughed with her, and Dick, who was 
 lounging close by, gave a languid smile. 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Charles, who considered that her 
 last remark deserved a compliment, ' I am sure I 
 don't wish you otherwise than you are.' 
 
 * Thank you,' said Meggy, still smiling. * I wish 
 I could repay you in your own coin, but I am not 
 used to making compliments.' 
 
 ' You are more used to receiving them — is that it ?' 
 
 'No, indeed. Who is there to compliment me? 
 My father, my sister, my aunt. Well, you know, 
 the compliments of relations are like —are like — 
 Now help me to a simile.' 
 
 'Like a — like a counterfeit sovereign — pretty 
 enough, but worthless.' 
 
 'Thank you, that will do very well. So, you see, 
 I am obliged to come abroad for compliments that I 
 can set a value upon.' 
 
 Charles beofan to feel interested in his interlocutor.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 1G7 
 
 ' I wish/ he said, ' my tongue could speak nothing 
 but compliments.' 
 
 ' That would be too dreadful ; it would be like 
 being smothered under a shower of rose-leaves. No, 
 no ; be sparing with them.' 
 
 'You will not object to an occasional one V 
 
 ' Not if it comes without premeditation.' 
 
 * You mean ' 
 
 'I should like it to come from the heart, or I 
 should not value it.' 
 
 Omega, who had carried on her part of the fore- 
 goino^ dialoo^ue with an artificial lio;htness of manner 
 which she believed from her reading to be most 
 fascinating to the male sex, uttered the last obser- 
 vation with a sudden seriousness, and accompanied 
 it with a look of inquiry at Charles. He caught 
 her glance, when, with a blush at the detection, she 
 bent her gaze upon the ground. He kept his eyes 
 fixed upon her with a curious expression for a few 
 moments, and then resumed the conversation. 
 
 ' Well,' lie said, with a sudden alteration of 
 manner from mere courtesy to warm interest, * I 
 promise you to utter no compliment that does not 
 proceed from my heart. May I begin at once V 
 
 ' So soon V
 
 108 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 * Yes.' 
 'Well?' 
 
 * Your eyes ' — he hesitated for a moment — ' your 
 eyes have wonderful expression.^ 
 
 *And it has taken you six years to find that 
 out?' 
 
 * Yes, I never noticed it until now.' 
 
 * And why should you now V she asked. 
 
 * Why ? Well, because I have had a good look at 
 them, I suppose/ answered Charles, laughing. * I 
 must make up for my blindness hitherto. Thank 
 3'ou — a little more this way.' 
 
 Meggy again blushed and cast down her eyes ; 
 
 but she soon raised them, and looked Charley saucily 
 
 in tlie face. 
 
 ' There ! You have had enough ? Very well ; 
 
 now I must go.' 
 
 ' I will take you as far as the lodge gate.' 
 
 ' Are you sure you will come willingly ?' 
 
 'As sure as that I shall come back unwillingly.' 
 
 ' You make me almost believe you. You see, I am 
 
 still rather incredulous.' 
 
 With a tingling of her last blush upon her face, 
 
 she turned and walked away, Charles keeping by 
 
 her side.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 161) 
 
 Dick, as soon as they were beyond hearing, burst 
 into a scoffing laugh, and, with his hands in his 
 pockets, accompanied it with such a bending out- 
 wards of his body from the wall against which he 
 was leaning, that he nearly lost his equilibrium. 
 
 * As pretty a pair of love-birds as one could wish 
 to see,' he murmured, 'only the cock-bird being a 
 little shy, the hen has to make the running. I 
 only wish a girl with half lier good looks would 
 
 make up to me as she did to him. D n me if 
 
 she'd find me backward. He's not quite up to me 
 yet, though he's a likel}^ lad too, and will play the 
 devil hereabouts one of these days if he only gets 
 his head.' 
 
 As soon as he heard Charles returning, he jerked 
 himself into an upright posture, and advanced to 
 meet him. Charles looked at him, but said nothing ; 
 so Dick, to break the silence, began tlius : 
 
 ' About the Lincolnshire handicap, sir, I think you 
 might risk a pound or two on Solitaire. He's a 
 good animal, and I intend to put a sovereign on 
 him myself.' 
 
 ' I'll think over it,' said Charles, in a tone implying 
 that another subject at that moment monopolised 
 his tliouerhts.
 
 170 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 * He's a rare good animal, IVe been told/ con- 
 tinued Dick, ' and, as Fred Sparrow is going to ride 
 him, his chance is very good.' 
 
 He paused to give Charles an opportunity of dis- 
 burdening his mind. As he still remained silent, 
 Dick changed his tack. 
 
 ' Ah ! I see this isn't the moment to talk of back- 
 inof horses. You're thinkinor of something: else — 
 perhaps of that young lady/ 
 
 * Well, suppose I am V asked Charles, sharply. 
 *0h, nothing, sir,' answered Dick, with much 
 
 humility. 'I'm sure I don't blame you — she's 
 worth it.' 
 
 Charles looked at him disdainfully for a moment 
 or two, and then said: 'I know she is.' 
 
 ' Her face is as good as her figure,' continued 
 Dick, ' and that's saying a good deal, for a prettier 
 figure I never saw. She's a charming piece of 
 goods — that's what she is.' 
 
 * I don't think she stands in need of your 
 praising,' said Charles, who was accustomed at 
 times to treat his confidant with an insolence which 
 the other bore with the most perfect good temper. 
 * Keep your praises for servants and farm-girls — you 
 know them.*
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. I7l 
 
 'And I'm not so sure that you don't know them 
 too, sir/ said Dick, with a light laugh, ' and perhaps 
 better than I do. In fact, I think I only run down 
 the game — well, I suppose that's to be all over now. 
 Susan's to be discharged ' 
 
 ' Can't you hold your tongue T cried Charles 
 fiercely. ' If you are going to become a babbler ' 
 
 'I think, sir,' said Dick, with an injured air, 
 * that I can keep my tongue as still as anybody when 
 it's necessary. I've heard a good many things from 
 you, sir ; but I don't believe a single word of them 
 has ever gone any further. However, perhaps I'm 
 disturbing you, and I'd better be off.' 
 
 * No, don't go ; I want to speak to you. Come, 
 let us sit down. You saw Miss Hewitson and me 
 speaking together.' 
 
 'I did, sir.' 
 
 ' Well, what did you think ?' 
 
 * I thought you were uncommonly lucky, sir.' 
 ' Why ?' 
 
 ' Because I saw the girl — I beg your pardon, I 
 mean Miss Hewitson — was already gone.' 
 
 ' You mean ' 
 
 ' I mean she's already liead over ears in love with 
 you.'
 
 172 THE PEOFESSOK AND HIS DAUGHTEES. 
 
 ' Do you think so really V 
 
 ' I'm certain of it. I noticed the way she looked 
 at you — and she blushed once or twice ' 
 
 * Dick, the same thought occurred to me. I read 
 it in her eyes.' 
 
 *Yes, there's no mistaking it. She's dead gone. 
 Ha, ha ! It's not often that the cherry drops right 
 into one's mouth. You've nothing to do, sir. You 
 needn't climb up the tree to get it, risking a hole in 
 your clothes ; all you have to do is to open your 
 mouth, and the cherry will drop into it.' 
 
 ' 1 never expected it, Dick, and, by Jove ! she's 
 as handsome a girl as you could wish to see.' 
 
 * Ah, sir, they're just the same, whether they're 
 ladies or servant-girls. They see a good-looking 
 young fellow, and they won't be satisfied until they 
 have him. I say you're in luck, sir. Poor Susan, 
 I suppose, must give way ' 
 
 ' You don't think ' 
 
 Charles broke off" his sentence, which he had 
 begun in an indignant tone, and fixed his e^'es on 
 Dick, who, with a queer smile on his face, returned 
 his glance. 
 
 Nothing more was said, and presently Charles, 
 with a parting nod to Dick, walked away. He
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 173 
 
 did not go directly to the house, but turned his 
 steps to a little pathway leading to some out- 
 houses, up and down which he paced for an hour 
 or more, with his eyes fixed meditatively on the 
 ground.
 
 p 
 
 
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 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Omega walked home that afternoon in a daze. 
 She heeded not the familiar objects that presented 
 themselves on the way — the whitewashed cottages, 
 the resounding smithy, or the six giant beech trees 
 that had often seemed to her childish imagination to 
 look down upon her with grave faces as she passed. 
 They were as though they were not. She seemed 
 to tread upon air, and her eyes, though open^ saw 
 nothing but the scene that her mind conjured up. 
 She felt a delicious feeling of tremulous unrest 
 about the region of the heart, which at times — 
 according to her thoughts — vibrated through her 
 whole system. 
 
 She was loved 1 — she knew it. The scales had 
 at last dropped from the eyes of her hero as he 
 had looked into the depths of hers. He had pene- 
 trated her secret, and, in doing this, had discovered
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 175 
 
 that he loved her. What rapture she felt in the • 
 very thought : 
 
 Never again would she suffer from that dull 
 languor which her sister had remarked ; for the 
 future, she carried in her bosom an antidote 
 to melancholy. Ah, to be loved 1 What a grand 
 idea ! 
 
 Even in the mere words, ' I am loved/ there was 
 a sound like the rippling of distant waters when 
 one is basking beneath the rays of a warm summer 
 sun — a sound of deep, soothing satisfaction ! Care 
 would never come to her again j henceforth life 
 would be one long space of pure happiness. 
 
 Poor Omega ! Her virgin heart thirsting for 
 love had drunk itself into a state of unreasoning 
 frenzy. She was right in asserting to herself that 
 Charles's manner had changed towards her — that his 
 voice had become more tender and his bearing more 
 gentle, but she was rather forestalling events when she 
 asserted that he loved her. His vanity had certainly 
 been tickled by the fact that a good-looking girl 
 had so easily surrendered her heart into his keeping; 
 but it by no means followed that this would bring 
 him to regard her with feelings akin to her own. 
 E-ather was it more natural to conjecture — on the
 
 176 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 principle that what is easily gained is lightly valued 
 — that his love, if he ever came to love her, would 
 be largely tinctured with contempt, and would 
 speedily dissolve into indifference. 
 
 Meggy, however, only saw the matter from her 
 own point of view, and she entered the cottage on 
 her return home with a lightness of spirits such as 
 she seldom experienced. She tarried for a few 
 minutes before a small mirror in the dining-room, 
 gazing at her features abstractedly, and smoothing 
 her shaggy locks ; then, looking into the garden, 
 she saw her father and her sister, and went out to 
 join them. 
 
 The Professor, under the influence of his sister, 
 was expanding in a wonderful manner. With a due 
 regard for her brother's health, which at his age 
 ■was likely to suffer from want of exercise, she had 
 set her brains to work to discover a plan for getting 
 him more out of doors. The pony-chaise had lost 
 its attractions for him, and was only used when 
 he had to make visits to distant acquaintances. He 
 had found that he no longer had the strength to 
 take long walks without feeling fatigued, and, in 
 consequence, often satin his study from morning till 
 niojht without stirrinor abroad. Miss Hewitson had
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 177 
 
 seen that something was required to stir him, and 
 having arranged her scheme of action, had begun 
 the attack without delay. 
 
 She had informed the Professor, with a great 
 show of indignation, that she was heartily ashamed 
 of the way in which he fulfilled his duties as head 
 of the house. Was she expected to do everything ? 
 If so, she would refuse point-blank. There was 
 Humphrey, who was engaged in gardening, with 
 not a soul to look after him, and see that he did 
 his work properly. Whose duty was it ? Why, of 
 course, the Professor's ! 
 
 The Professor had mildly inquired of his sister 
 whether she thought he was competent to interfere 
 in gardening matters. 
 
 It was his duty, she had answered, to make him- 
 self competent ; and this could only be done by 
 studying gardening both theoretically and practically. 
 With this, she had handed him a bulky volume, 
 inappropriately called 'The Gardener s Vade Mecum,' 
 and had left him to study it. 
 
 Not only did the Professor study the book as a 
 novel and curious specimen of literature, but, be- 
 coming interested in the subject, he took down 
 from his shelves the volumes of Hesiod and Virgil, 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 and read those parts relating to agriculture and 
 husbandry with the greatest assiduity. Thus it 
 happened that, within three days after Miss Hewit- 
 son's action, the Professor had gone into the garden, 
 had effected certain alterations in connection with 
 the bees which his study of Virgil had suggested to 
 him, and had done several other acts which conclu- 
 sively showed how thoroughly he had mastered his 
 subject. 
 
 When Omega approached him, he was taking a 
 short rest after having used his spade with a vigour 
 that had produced a painful effect upon the small 
 of his back, and was peering at the 'Yade Mecum,' 
 which lay open upon a small rustic table before 
 him. Omega, in the excess of her joyous emo- 
 tions, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed 
 him. 
 
 ' Gently, Meggy !' cried the Professor. ' Don't 
 smother me in your affectionate ardour. Release 
 me, my dear, and tell me how j^ou found your 
 friend Mrs. Venner.' 
 
 * She was very well, papa.' 
 
 'Ah, and you enjoyed yourself. Well, that is 
 as it should be. You see me, my dear, busil}^ en- 
 gaged. By-the-bye, can you tell me at what depth
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 179 
 
 Mrs. Venner's gardener sows his seeds ? This book 
 is absolutely silent on the point.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid I don't know.' 
 
 * Ah, well, I suppose I must blindly accept 
 Humphrey's opinion. It is unfortunate that I have 
 no better guide to go by. I am getting quite 
 accustomed to this work, my dear, and find it by 
 no means fatiguing with an occasional rest. Your 
 aunt is amazed at my assiduity ; and I can assure 
 you that far from losing its attractions, gardening 
 is gaining upon me daily.' 
 
 With this, the Professor stuck his spade in the 
 earth, and resumed his voluntary labour. 
 
 Alpha, who was sitting close by with a piece of 
 linen in one hand and a needle busily plied in the 
 other, noticed the unusual brightness on her sister's 
 face, and looked up at her inquiringly. 
 
 ' What has happened, Meggy V 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, could have afforded Omega 
 more satisfaction at that moment, than to have had 
 a familiar friend by her side to whom she could 
 confide the delightful thoughts that were crowding 
 upon her mind. Alpha, however, though loyally 
 attached to her sister, had never been able to win 
 her unreserved confidence, partly from the very
 
 180 THE PROFESSOR AXD HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 fact of their being sisters, and partly from the radical 
 difference between their natures. Omega, there- 
 fore, resolved to keep her secret confined to her 
 own bosom, and answered her sister's question by 
 denying that anything unusual had taken place. 
 
 Alpha, glancing at her sister's beaming eyes, 
 half suspected the truth — for Love, when he enters 
 the heart, peeps out of the eyes — and, wishing to 
 ascertain the correctness of her suspicion, said in a 
 careless tone : 
 
 'Did you see Charles Venner to-day at his 
 mother's V 
 
 * Yes — -just as I was leaving.' 
 
 ' He is growing quite a good-looking fellow.* 
 
 ' I think him very handsome.' 
 
 'Perhaps so — though he wants expression.' 
 
 * Oh, Alpha! He couldn't have more than he 
 has ! Surely you must have noticed what a sweet, 
 good-tempered smile he generally has on his face.' 
 
 ' Yes, true ; but, at the same time, he seems to me 
 to lack manliness.' 
 
 'Your idea of manliness must be very peculiar, then.' 
 
 * But don't you think he is somewhat effeminate V 
 
 * No ! He is a very handsome, gentlemanly 
 fellow, and I am sure there is no one here to com-
 
 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 181 
 
 pare with hira. He may not be very clever, but it 
 isn't always the cleverest people who are the wisest. 
 He has a great deal to say for himself when you 
 know him, and is very polite and attentive, and I 
 don't think him the least bit effeminate.' 
 
 ' He is not the sort of man I should care to 
 marry.' 
 
 ' Well, he is the sort of man I ' 
 
 * Should care to marr}^ ?' 
 
 Meggy blushed at having so far betrayed herself, 
 and sat silent, determined to make no further 
 admission ; while Alpha, having extracted all she 
 wanted, turned her whole attention to her sewing. 
 
 Miss Hewitson at this moment made her appear- 
 ance, having returned with Mrs. Mappertree from a 
 drive in the pony-chaise. 
 
 * My dear brother,' she exclaimed, ' I am sure that 
 pony will be the death of us one of these days. He 
 has been behaving so badly, and Humphrey has 
 been swearing so shamefully, that I am quite upset. 
 He has a most vicious eye, and when he isn't rear- 
 ing on his hind-legs ' 
 
 * Who, Humphrey V 
 
 ' Humphrey ! Bless the man ! The pony I am 
 talking about. Jane, perhaps you can explain it
 
 182 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 better than I, though I think the misunderstanding 
 is due to other people's want of intelligence, and not 
 to any obscureness on my part.' 
 
 ' It cannot be denied/ said Mrs. Mappertree, look- 
 ing at the Professor with a plaintive expression 
 which a mute might have envied — * It cannot be 
 denied that the pony is a fractious animal. I 
 remember my papa bought me a pony to ride about 
 at Boodle Hall, quite white except two spots on 
 the left side and one on his tail, which must have 
 cost him, I am sure, quite thirty guineas, though 
 my papa never thought of the expense when I was 
 concerned, for I was the darling of his heart, he 
 often said, and if it had not been for Mapper- 
 tree ' 
 
 ' Tut, tut !' cried Miss Hewitson. ' Hold your 
 tongue ! You are quite incorrigible.' 
 
 Mrs. Mappertree's eyes moistened, and her ever- 
 ready handkerchief made its appearance. It was 
 remarkable the quantity of tears this good lady 
 was accustomed to shed, without apparently in the 
 least affecting her capacity to shed more. 
 
 The Professor, to screen Mrs. Mappertree from 
 any further rebukes, directed his sister's attention 
 to the result of his afternoon's labour.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 183 
 
 ' There is something in this kind of work/ he 
 said, ' that gives a most exhilarating tone to the 
 spirits. Voluntary labour is the sweetest of all 
 occupations, especially the labour of the husband- 
 man. As Ovid says : 
 
 * " Tempus iu agroriim cultu, consumere dulce est." 
 
 ' " It is pleasant to pass one's time in the cultivation of the 
 fields." 
 
 ' It clears the overtired brain, and brightens up the 
 faculties ; and thus it enables me to proceed more 
 energetically with the composition of my work. I 
 confess I am no practical gardener ; but it appears 
 to me, from the perusal of the " Vade Mecum," that a 
 knowledge of gardening is very easily acquired. To 
 be sure, there are one or two omissions in this book, 
 though doubtless of no very great consequence. For 
 instance, it does not say how thickly the seeds 
 should be sown; but I apprehend I have done 
 correctly in distributing them over this area of 
 ground.' 
 
 * Surely you haven't mixed all the seeds up to- 
 gether V asked Miss Hewitson. 
 
 The Professor looked uncomfortable. 
 
 * I have certainly sown all the seeds that were
 
 184 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 given me/ he answered. * Finding them all wrapped 
 up in similar papers, I took it for granted they were 
 all of one variety.' 
 
 * Dear, dear ! we shall have the onions, the 
 carrots, the radishes, and the turnips all coming up 
 indiscriminately ! Who ever heard of such a 
 thing !' 
 
 The Professor felt terribly guilty ; but, like all 
 guilty people, attempted an excuse. 
 
 ' It is certainly not usual, my dear sister, for vege- 
 tables to appear in such a manner; at the same 
 time, since it answers the purpose for which seeds 
 are sown, it cannot be absolutely wrong. I do not 
 defend it, though I believe you will find nothing in 
 the "Vade Mecum" absolutely condemning it. At the 
 worst, it is an unusual method, and — and — one per- 
 haps not to be recommended.' After a short pause, 
 he added in a lower tone, ' I have been chiding 
 Humphrey somewhat of late for clinging to his 
 old-fashioned ideas about gardening. I think — I 
 think, sister — it will be well to say nothing to him 
 about this mistake of mine.' 
 
 Tea being now announced, they entered the 
 house and sat down to their meal. A lively conver- 
 sation ensued on various subjects, in which all
 
 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 185 
 
 joined except Omega, who was too deeply occupied 
 with her own fascinating thoughts to take any part 
 in it. Love had at last come to her ; love danced 
 before her eyes ; love whispered in her ear. The 
 torch had been applied, and flames of fire were 
 leaping within her bosom.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was about this time — when Omega had fallen 
 so completely under the influence of her girlish 
 passion — that the little cottage door was frequently 
 opened to a young man who has not figured hitherto 
 in this story. He was a clergyman, only lately ar- 
 rived in the parish to assist the Rector, who from 
 his years and infirmities was not able to give that 
 attention to his flock which is required from a con- 
 scientious son of the Church. The Rector, indeed, 
 had the reputation of being a good liver rather than 
 a devotee. He was a very much better drinker than 
 preacher, and his friends unanimously declared that 
 his sermons were not to be compared with his port. 
 The neighbouring church people had for many 
 years spoken lightly of their pastor, and the Metho- 
 dists had been liberal with their gibes and sneers ; 
 but no one had felt inclined to take the lead in re- 
 monstrance. Thus each year had the Rector gained 
 
 J
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 187 
 
 in rubicundity of visage, and his sermons lost in 
 theological perspicuit}^. 
 
 At last the time came when he found such ex- 
 treme difficulty in getting through the service, that 
 he was compelled to relinquish the greater part of 
 his duties to a younger and less thirsty man. The 
 Keverend Harold Cuthbert,unknown and unheralded, 
 suddenly made his appearance among the startled 
 parishioners, and at once became the focus of atten- 
 tion. Inquiries, with a view of ascertaining the 
 antecedents of the new-comer, were freely made by 
 the inhabitants of one another, but with no satis- 
 factory results. 
 
 His first sermon was attended by a large concourse, 
 including most of the chapel-people, who came with 
 a tine spirit of tolerance to give their opinion upon 
 the new man, and to criticize his delivery and 
 language. The minister himself was about six-and- 
 twent}^ years of age, of medium height, and with a 
 cast of countenance of the most pure Saxon type. 
 His features were striking — not from physical 
 beauty, but from the beauty that proceeds from a 
 pure heart and gentle nature. The blue eyes were 
 full of truth, as the whole expression was full of 
 sober earnestness. The people were satisfied with
 
 188 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 his personal appearance, and waited with inapatience 
 to hear his sermon. It was impressive and full of 
 thoufjht ; the outcome of a cultivated rather than of 
 an eloquent mind. It was not to be compared with 
 the discourses of the Reverend Price Ap Thomas, 
 of the neighbouring Bethesda, for oratorical splen- 
 dour and fulness of illustration ; but its effect was 
 probably more lasting. And when, having spoken 
 for some twenty minutes in the English tongue, the 
 preacher, turning to the people in the free seats, de- 
 livered a few phrases in Welsh to the effect that he 
 had come amono^st them as a stranorer without ere- 
 dentials, but that he hoped to prove his fitness for 
 his position as their spiritual guide and to gain 
 their esteem and friendship, — a general buzz, expres- 
 sive of their good opinion, went round the church. 
 The general verdict might well be summed up 
 in the eulogistic words of a toothless old man, 
 who said that 'Indeed, she was a good-looking 
 one, and could speak fery well ; ay, indeed she 
 could !' 
 
 Information regarding this excellent young man, 
 who had thus happily introduced himself to his 
 parishioners, was now sought after with greater 
 eagerness than ever ; and at length, from various
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 189 
 
 sources, and little by little, the story of his previous 
 life was learnt. 
 
 The Reverend Harold Cuthbert was, it appeared, 
 one of a family of ten children, all of whom were 
 not only living, but in the enjoyment of exuberant 
 health. There is a saying that Providence is on the 
 side of big battalions, which may be supplemented 
 by the remark that Providence is also on the side 
 of big families. The prosperity which generally 
 attends large families may possibly be accounted 
 for — putting aside the direct intervention of Provi- 
 dence — by the fact that the parents are generally 
 virtuous, God- fearing^ and careful people, who early 
 indoctrinate their children in those sound precepts 
 which ensure worldly advancement. Be this as it 
 may, it was true in the case of the Cuthbert family; 
 for the three girls, blessed with fair faces and fine 
 constitutions, had all married well ; while the sons, 
 in their different occupations, were reaping the 
 benefit of their excellent training. 
 
 o 
 
 Harold, the youngest but two, had gone through 
 his course at Oxford with no especial brilliancy, but 
 with much satisfaction to himself and his parents. 
 His even temper and happy disposition brought him 
 a heap of friends ; and his pureness of heart was so
 
 190 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 manifest that he escaped ridicule. It was little 
 Bloggs, of Pembroke, the wildest of undergraduates, 
 who said, ' By Jove ! Cuthbert, old boy, when I 
 want to compound for my sins, I'll come to you.' 
 He never intruded his religious notions unless he 
 was invited to do so ; and, so far from objecting to 
 a hearty laugh, could relish a good story — if free 
 from coarseness — and join in a practical joke — if 
 the consequences were harmless — with any man of 
 his years at College. 
 
 It was while forming one of a reading-party in 
 North Wales that he conceived the project of learn- 
 ing the Welsh tongue, and attempting to bring back 
 some of the people into the fold of the Established 
 Church. In too many cases he saw with concern 
 that the Welsh clergy fell far below that high 
 standard of duty which he regarded as essential in 
 a minister belonging to the Church of England, and 
 he ceased to wonder why the chapels should be so 
 full and the churches so empty. The Celtic race, 
 with their fervent natures, will not tolerate any 
 lukewarmness in a matter so essential to them as 
 religion ; they must have it brought vividly before 
 their minds — whether it be by the Church of Rome, 
 the Church of England, or the Church of Dissent.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 191 
 
 Harold recognised this fact, and, with the limitless 
 ambition of a j^oung man_, determined to devote 
 himself to the task of bringing back the strayed 
 sheep to the fold ; and it was thus that, in the 
 fulness of time, he came among the parishioners of 
 
 L . 
 
 After the success that attended his opening 
 sermon, he found little diifficulty in making the 
 acquaintance of most of the villagers and neigh- 
 bouring farmers. Being an excellent walker, he 
 took long walks when leisure permitted, and pene- 
 trated into farmhouses lying beyond the hills which 
 had before never been visited by a stranger. The 
 people received him with respect, though mingled 
 with suspicion, and he foresaw that it would be a 
 matter of time before he gained their entire con- 
 fidence ; but considering his recent appearance 
 among them, he was well content with the progress 
 he had made. 
 
 As time passed on, he found he had to combat 
 many little prejudices which had been part and 
 parcel of the people for generations. There was, 
 for instance, a raising of hands and a chorus of dis- 
 approving voices when it became known that the 
 new minister, who seemed so thoroughly good, was
 
 1.92 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 accustomed to bathe in the river of a Sunday. To 
 them it looked very much like rushing directly in 
 the face of the Almighty, and they were seized with 
 all sorts of ominous forebodings. Harold laughed 
 at their objections, treated them to some rough 
 logic which brought about much scratching of 
 heads and uncertainty^ and continued the practice. 
 
 On another occasion an old woman — almost on 
 the brink of the grave — found grievous fault with 
 him on the score of his preaching. She had been 
 so used to hearing of the tortures of Hell and the 
 torments that await the sinner, that she felt quite 
 aggrieved when she heard him deliver a sermon 
 without referring to those dread subjects. Harold 
 told her that he considered it more serviceable to 
 religion to paint the rewards that are in store for 
 the righteous than the punishment that is to over- 
 take the wicked ; but the argument was lost on the 
 old crone, whose reply seemed to insinuate that she 
 
 was accustomed to be d d on a Sunday, and felt 
 
 the omission as a personal insult. 
 
 Harold, while giving to the poorer inhabitants of 
 the district the greater part of his time, did not 
 neglect his more fortunate parishioners, and amongst 
 these he singled out the Professor and his family for
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 193 
 
 attention. There was much that attracted him to 
 tlie Professor. Even on that day when he had to 
 tindergo the trying ordeal of facing a hundred 
 grimly dressed villagers, watching eagerly to find 
 an opening for hostile criticism, he had not failed to 
 notice the gentle upturned face — with its never- 
 absent expression of weariness — gazing upon him 
 from a distant pew. Acquaintance speedily fol- 
 lowed, and the old man with the reverend white 
 locks and the young man full of the fire of youth 
 became staunch friends. Discussions on all con- 
 ceivable subjects — except that of religion, on which 
 the Professor's views were so simple that no discus- 
 sion could take place — passed between them ; and, 
 as it was often impossible to exhaust a subject in 
 one short afternoon, it followed that Harold's visits 
 to the cottage were very frequent. 
 
 It was natural, too, that the young clergyman, who 
 had shown himself inclined to be rather dogmatic 
 in his opinions at the beginning of his acquaintance 
 with the Professor, should become, as time went on, 
 much more tractable to the older man's views. The 
 Professor was highly delighted with this change, and 
 on more than one occasion assured Alpha — who was 
 generally present at these discussions — that he had 
 
 VOL. T. 1'^
 
 194 THE PROFESSOR AXD HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 never known a young man more willing to be con- 
 vinced. When, however, he was led into boasting 
 of the success of his arguments in the presence of 
 his sister, he was much disconcerted by that lady 
 giving expression to a most contemptuous ' Pooh !' 
 and following it up by the remark that he was as 
 blind as a bat. The Professor could extract no 
 reason from his sister to justify this disparaging 
 simile, beyond the further remark that if he would 
 look a little bej^ond his nose, he would see for him- 
 self; and, as it was impossible to reconcile the one 
 assertion of his blindness with the other assertion 
 of his ability to see if he looked beyond his nose, 
 he very wisely dismissed both from his mind, and 
 adhered to his own opinion. 
 
 The Professor, much pleased with his young 
 friend^s judgment, showed his satisfaction by pro- 
 ducing for Harold's inspection the manuscript of the 
 great work that had been so long in progress, and 
 was still unfinished. Though his voice had never 
 been famed for beauty of expression, and was apt, 
 after much exertion, to become hoarse and throaty, 
 the Professor believed that no one could do justice 
 to the task of delivering his flowing periods but 
 liimself In this pleasing occupation he spent so
 
 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 195 
 
 many hours^ that Harold began to feel that life 
 employed in listening to the beauties of the Greek 
 poets, might in time grow to become an intolerable 
 burden. 
 
 And yet he was not unwilling to undergo 
 these tedious recitations, inasmuch as within the 
 same little cottage he received ample compensation. 
 Miss Hewitson, in making the contemptuous ejacu- 
 lation before recorded in answer to her brother's 
 boast, had again given evidence of her marvellous 
 skill in detecting the presence of the tender passion. 
 Mrs. Mappertree, ever ready with her feeble flattery, 
 vowed that never had woman been endowed with so 
 wondrous a power of fathoming the most hidden 
 secrets of love as her dear friend. Was it really 
 possible that their visitor had actually fallen in love 
 with darling Alpha ? And yet she could not for one 
 moment doubt her friend's insight. 
 
 Miss Hewitson was perfectly right; the quiet, 
 subdued beauty of Alpha had wrought its impres- 
 sion upon the young clergyman's heart. He, who 
 had never loved before, and, indeed, had at times 
 doubted whether a worker in the service of God was 
 at liberty to think of earthly love, now felt that life 
 without some dear partner to share his joys and
 
 196 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 troubles would be most bare and uninteresting. He 
 argued with himself very naturally that a man who 
 has married a wife, and has a troop of little children, 
 is better fitted, from his happy, contented state of 
 mind, to preach happiness and content to others, 
 than the man who forswears matrimony and lives a 
 lonely, uncheered existence. Such arguments are 
 undoubtedly powerful ones, and would probably be 
 convincing to most men ; but in Harold's case they 
 possessed an additional power, in that they chimed 
 in with his desires. What wonder, then, that he 
 listened to them with willing ears, and, listening, 
 became satisfied that to win the lovely i\lpha for 
 wife would be to do an acceptable and meritorious 
 act?
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 If anyone had told Dick Revell that he was his 
 young master's bad genius, the informant would 
 have met with a quiet smile of contempt, and a sar- 
 castic invitation to take up his abode in a warmer 
 sphere. Dick's conscience — what there was of it — 
 was perfectly at rest on that score. He knew only 
 too well that, under his guidance, Charles was 
 acquiring habits that could scarcely merit the prefix 
 of gentlemanly ; but this knowledge caused him no 
 anxiety. He knew well that Charles was fast 
 becoming as thorough-paced a rogue as himself, 
 and yet this knowledge gave no qualms to his 
 conscience. 
 
 Dick, in his own way, had a strong affection for 
 his young master, though occasionally the tone of 
 superiority adopted by the latter roused an inward 
 anger. He had known him from boyhood, had 
 joined his games, had shared his pocket-money
 
 198 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 and — had shaped his mind. He had no malicious 
 intention in striving to make Charles as bad as him- 
 self; so far from that, he imagined he was making 
 the very best return in his power for the many 
 favours he had received. 
 
 To explain this enigma, it is sufficient to say that 
 Dick had a theory that all men become scamps at 
 some period of their lives. Granting this, it natur- 
 ally followed that the man who became a scamp in 
 his youth had a manifest advantage over the man 
 whogained that distinction only when he had arrived 
 at mature years. Consequently, in indoctrinating his 
 youthful master in those principles which go to form 
 the character of a scamp, Dick was satisfied that he 
 was playing a very excellent and worthy part. This 
 theory may not find a general acceptance in this 
 austere age, but it could be wished that every theorist 
 had such a thorough faith in his theory as Dick had, 
 and was as earnest in his endeavours to let others 
 share in the benefits that accrue to its supporters. 
 Dick was indeed earnest, and grudged neither time 
 nor patience in implanting his own views in Charles's 
 mind. Socrates himself could not have been more 
 patient with the least promising of his disciples. 
 Dick, however, found Charles an apt pupil ; the
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 199 
 
 seed he scattered with such profusion fell upon 
 rich ground, and gave promise of a magnificent 
 €rop. 
 
 Dick watched with much curiosity the progress of 
 the intimacy between his young master and the 
 pretty Miss Hewitson, and, though Charles shunned 
 -any conversation with him on the subject, his ob- 
 servant eye saw many things which enabled him to 
 guess how matters were proceeding. He was in- 
 terested much as an enthusiastic chess-player would 
 be interested while witnessing a game in which a 
 3^oungster who had learnt the moves from him took 
 part. He remarked the growing interest which 
 Charles showed toward the young, confiding girl, 
 and the increasing number of meetings that took 
 place between them. Charles's silence naturally 
 gave him some offence, but he regarded it as of itself 
 evidence that matters were proceeding as fairly as 
 could be wished, and that his counsel was not re- 
 quired. Whenever he ventured to approach the 
 subject, Charles either aff'ected not to hear him, or 
 made a few commonplace remarks, and turned the 
 ^subject into another channel. 
 
 Thus passed some two or three months, and Dick 
 was seriously considering what means he should
 
 200 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 employ to make Charles open his mind to bim and 
 completely satisfy his curiosity, when, by an unex- 
 pected turn of fortune, his connection with Pen- 
 gwern Park was brought to a sudden end. 
 
 Mrs. Venner had a servant-maid named Susan in 
 her household, who had more than the usual share of 
 rustic charms. From information received, Mi.s, 
 Venner discovered that Susan had not been so dis- 
 creet as a young woman should be, and, calling the 
 delinquent before her, extracted from her a confes- 
 sion that Dick Re veil had been the tempter who 
 had led her astray. Mrs. Venner was accustomed to 
 act with a stern decision whenever she deemed it 
 necessary for the due government of her household; 
 and in this instance she summoned Dick before her, 
 and in half a dozen words dismissed him from her 
 service. Dick bowed in his most graceful manner, 
 glanced carelessly at Omega, who happened to be 
 visiting Mrs. Venner, and, with a smile of self-com- 
 placency, left the room. 
 
 Though rather loath to part from his young 
 master, he was by no means heart-broken that his 
 period of servitude at Pengwern Park was at an 
 end. He had now an opportunity of realizing his 
 long-felt wish to enter the charmed circle of the
 
 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 201 
 
 Turf, and of putting to the test that profound know- 
 ledge of cunning and trickery which he believed 
 himself to possess. 
 
 But to Charles, the news came as a very un- 
 pleasant surprise. Dick was the only person in the 
 place of whom he could make a companion, to whom 
 he could confide his secrets, and from whom he 
 could get the kind of counsel he required. If he 
 went, he would be left companionless, and his life 
 at home, already becoming irksome, would become 
 intolerably dull. He knit his brows as these 
 thoughts came to him, and declared in a passionate 
 manner that his mother should hear from his own 
 lips what were his feelings on the matter. In this 
 frame of mind he burst into the house, and, taking 
 no notice of Omega, confronted his mother. She 
 looked up at his entrance with a countenance 
 quite free from any indication of passion ; but, 
 divining at once the purpose that brought him 
 thither, she set her teeth together, bent her brows, 
 and prepared herself for a fierce passage of words. 
 
 Charles wasted no time in befjjinninf^ the attack ; 
 he felt just in the humour to play a brave part. 
 
 ' I hear you have dismissed Dick,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, in a firm voice.
 
 202 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ' I hope you will reconsider it.' 
 
 * I shall not; 
 
 ' You may not be aware that I am much attached 
 to him, and shall feel his absence very much.' 
 
 ' That will not induce me to reconsider my de- 
 cision/ 
 
 * I tell you again that if he goes, I shall greatly 
 miss him.' 
 
 ' I cannot help that.' 
 
 ' He is the only companion I have, and you 
 punish me more than him in sending him away.' 
 
 ' I cannot help that.' 
 
 ' I tell you I wish him to stay !' 
 
 ' I have said, he goes. I shall not change my 
 mind.' 
 
 ' You will not listen to me, then ! I might have 
 known it. What do you care for the wishes of 
 your only child ? Let him live or die — it is a 
 matter of indifference to you ! You call yourself 
 my mother. Well, mother or not, I hate you !' 
 
 Charles, as he hissed out these last words, bent 
 towards her threateningly, when, with a sudden 
 movement, she sprang from her chair, and faced 
 him. No longer under control, with hands clenched 
 and eyes on fire, she looked the very incarnation 
 of the spirit of anger.
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 203 
 
 ' You cannot hate me/ she cried, ' more than I 
 hate you — you cursed likeness of a cursed father! 
 The hatred I have for you is ten times greater than 
 any hatred you can have for me ; for mine had its 
 beginning years before you were born ! Take your 
 face from me ! Take it from me ! It will make 
 me mad to look upon it !' 
 
 She raised her hands to screen her e3^es from 
 the sight of her son, and stood panting, and 
 trembling in every limb. 
 
 Omega took advantage of the pause to place her- 
 self between them. 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, leave us !' she cried, in a low, 
 agitated voice, to Charles. Then, seeing that he 
 made no movement, she seized hold of his hand, and 
 endeavoured to draw him towards the door. 
 
 ' Come,' she cried, in a low, pleading tone. 'Surely 
 you will grant me this favour ? I ask it of you, 
 Charles.' 
 
 Her appeal was effectual ; he suffered himself to 
 be led to the door, and left the room without a 
 word. 
 
 As soon as he was gone. Omega turned to Mrs. 
 Venner, who remained standing in the centre of the 
 room, her hands still upraised, and her eyes fixed
 
 204 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 upon the carpet. She went to her, and led her with 
 a gentle movement to a chair. Omega sat down by 
 her side, and waited patiently until her excitement 
 should pass off. The poor girl herself was not a 
 little agitated by a scene wherein so much passion 
 had been shown, and she therefore welcomed the 
 interval of silence that would elapse before Mrs. 
 Yenner should completely regain her natural com- 
 posure. 
 
 In the meantime, Charles hurried away from the 
 house with a very bitter feeling in his heart, and 
 sought out the cause of his quarrel with his mother. 
 Dick was engaged in packing up his box, and in 
 whistling a bright little refrain to show how easily 
 he bore his dismissal. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' he said, as Charles came up to him, 
 ' Fve had the straight tip — I'm to be off to-night. 
 It was the business with Susan. She put every- 
 thing on my shoulders ; they have to bear enough 
 already without ' 
 
 'I know; and I've had the most infernal scene 
 with my mother about you.' 
 
 ' You tried to get her to keep me on ?' 
 
 'Yes. It was of no use. I should sooner have 
 moved a rock than moved her.'
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 205 
 
 'Don't fret, sir; I'm sure I don't. To tell you 
 
 the truth, I'm d d sick of the place ' 
 
 ' So am I !' 
 
 * And I'm not at all sorry to get my liberty. 
 This is not the place for a cute fellow like me, 
 where there is nothing to do but to eat, drink, and 
 get fat. I'm off to Newmarket ; that's the shop for 
 a fellow with brains. There are many ways in 
 which a fellow who's got brains, and isn't toe 
 
 modest, can make plenty of coin there ; and d n 
 
 me if I don't mean to have a try.' 
 
 * You ought to succeed, Dick.' 
 
 ' So I ought, sir ; for I wasn't born yesterday, and 
 I know a coach wheel from a church clock. I shall 
 have my opportunity at Newmarket, and, just as 
 likely as not, by this time next year I shall be 
 swigging champagne, and living among the swells. 
 You know I alwa.ys had gentlemanly tastes, sir ; for 
 I never could associate with any of the men here, 
 who are good for nothing but to guzzle stale beer 
 and cast sheep's-eyes at the girls.' 
 
 * Well, I wish you luck.* 
 
 ' Thank you, sir. I've got my programme alread^^ 
 sketched out, and I mean to follow it up, and trust 
 to good luck ; and if it doesn't succeed, why I'll
 
 206 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 sketch out another. I can't help being glad to get 
 away, though I'm sorry to have to part from you, 
 sir.' 
 
 Dick uttered these last words with as much tender 
 feeling as he could summon to his aid, and, after 
 pausing in expectation that Charles would say 
 something, lie continued : 
 
 * You'll find it miglity dull here, sir.' 
 
 'Don't you fear!' cried Charles, with some 
 vehemence. ' I shan't be long here after you.' 
 
 'Why, sir ' 
 
 ' I'm as sick of the place as you are, and I won't 
 stand being cooped up like a pet deer any longer, 
 exposed to my mother's domineering temper. I 
 have stood it for a long time ; but, now that you 
 are going, I won't submit to it any longer. I have 
 nothing to keep me ' 
 
 ' Nothing, sir ?' asked Dick, looking up with a sly 
 face, as he pressed the lid down upon his box and 
 locked it. 
 
 ' Nothing ;' 
 
 ' Not— Miss Hewitson T 
 
 ' N— no !' 
 
 ' What 1 so soon !' cried Dick, with a laugh. 
 * You haven't taken lonoj to brinor the fortress to a
 
 surrender; though, to be sure, the garrison was onl}^ 
 too willing to come to terms.' 
 
 ' I wish to heaven you would keep your cursed 
 sneers to yourself!' exclaimed Charles, turning 
 crimson. ' Besides, you mistake me ' 
 
 * Indeed !' 
 
 Dick spoke in such a dry tone that it irritated 
 Charles. 
 
 ' Do you think I'm a liar V he asked. 
 
 * Oh no, sir,' replied Dick, with much deference. 
 ' Only, as you insinuated that you were tired of 
 Miss Hewitson * 
 
 ' I was wronor I I cannot leave her. I must re- 
 
 o 
 
 main here and bear my position.' 
 
 ' For how long ? Your toy will soon lose its 
 novelty ; you won't want to play with it for ever. 
 It is but of country-make^ and so simple in con- 
 struction that your curiosity will be soon satisfied ; 
 then you will want to get away from it. In six 
 months — perhaps sooner — it will be thrown on one 
 side, and you — will be gone.' 
 
 ' I tell you, 3"ou mistake me,' cried Charles sullenly ; 
 ' and I won't waste any more words on j^ou. I must 
 go now; perhaps we shall meet again some time or 
 other. Here's something to help you, in case your
 
 208 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 wonderful cleverness doesn't turn out as well as you 
 expect. Good-bye !' 
 
 He handed Dick a small purse, and, shaking him 
 by the hand half disdainfully and half affectionately, 
 sauntered away. As soon as he was gone, Dick 
 opened the purse, and counted out the money. 
 
 *Come! that's not so bad of him,' he exclaimed, 
 * though he oughtn't to try to hide an^^thing from 
 me, who know him as well as I know myself. 
 Ha, ha ! They may send me away, but there's one 
 left behind who can give me a fair start and beat 
 me. I ought to be proud of him, for he's of my own 
 training. He won't confess, but I'll lay a pound to 
 a shillinor that I'm not far wrong. I wonder whether 
 he and I will meet again !'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 While Charles had been engaged in the prosecution 
 of his secret plans in relation to the too-trusting 
 Omega, with an earnestness which he had never 
 displayed before, the Reverend Harold Cuthbert 
 had been also diligently pressing his suit with the 
 less impassioned Alpha. 
 
 The latter behaved, according to Miss Hewitson, 
 who took the strongest interest in her favourite 
 niece's love-affair, with the utmost decency, re- 
 ceiving his advances with a dignified composure, 
 and giving him just sufficient encouragement to 
 send him away in a contented mood. 
 
 * It was just in such a way as that,' Miss Hewitson 
 would observe, * that I allowed myself to be wooed, 
 though perhaps I was even more inaccessible than 
 you, my dear. There is nothing like presenting a 
 stern front to your lover — men are so terribly en- 
 croaching. Give them an inch, and they take an 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 ell ! A courtship should be conducted with all the 
 gravity and formality with which people in years 
 past used to dance the minuet. There was no 
 horse-play or indecent manifestations then, but a 
 simple courtesy and grave demeanour which you 
 may look for in vain nowadays. A lady should 
 never be prodigal with her favours ; a kind word 
 and a smile now and then is all that the most exact- 
 ing lover should look for.' 
 
 Alpha, perhaps having before her eyes the sad 
 termination of the one tender episode in her aunt's life, 
 did not follow that excellent lady's instructions with 
 the absolute strictness which she suggested, but gave 
 her lover sundry little hints to make him understand 
 that his attentions were by no means distasteful to 
 her. Harold, having made himself sure of this fact, 
 determined to waste no time in brino^inoj the matter 
 to its legitimate conclusion. He therefore called one 
 morning upon the Professor, to obtain his consent 
 before making a formal proposal to his daughter. 
 
 The Professor was engaged upon the work, and was 
 perhaps rather loath to be disturbed ; but he was so 
 well pleased with the appreciation which Harold had 
 always shown towards him and it, that he received him 
 with great cordiality.
 
 THE PKOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 211 
 
 * 7ou have come to hear how I am getting on V he 
 iisked, as he threw himself back in his chair and 
 pushed his spectacles up upon his brow. 
 
 * I have another object ' began Harold. 
 
 ' Ah ! very well. But first of all, I must tell you 
 that I am getting on famously, though not so rapidly 
 as my old friend Phillips — whom you may have 
 heard of— would like. I think it is Plutarch who 
 makes the remark that a rapidly executed work is 
 not likely to possess permanent qualities, and I am 
 ver}^ much of his opinion. But you have something 
 to tell me V 
 
 *I wish to say a few words to you upon a 
 matter that deeply concerns me. I dare say you 
 can guess its nature, for you cannot have failed to 
 observe ' 
 
 Harold came to an abrupt stop in the middle of his 
 »entence,for he saw that the Professor's thoughts were 
 far away. He sat back in his chair, and watched with 
 a smile the calm, far-away expression on the old man's 
 features. After a few minutes' pause, the Professor's 
 lips began to move, and his thoughts took the form 
 of words. 
 
 * Yes, it is true,' he muttered. ^ No work can 
 attain a permanent value witliout long and careful 
 
 14—2
 
 212 THE PEOFESSOR AND TflS DAUGHTERS, 
 
 labour. Though we may not ourselves reap the re- 
 ward of our diligence and assiduity, yet our memory 
 will be held in reverence by posterity. Perhaps the 
 day may come when my Commentary ' 
 
 Harold gave a slight cough, which immediately 
 directed the Professor's attention to him. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' he said, passing his hand over 
 his forehead to clear his faculties ; ' I am afraid I 
 was not listening to your remarks. Will you repeat 
 them V 
 
 '1 wish,' said Harold, plunging boldly into the 
 middle of matters lest the Professor's attention 
 should take to wandering again — ' I wish to know 
 whether you have any objection to my making a 
 proposal for your daughter's hand.' 
 
 * My daughter's hand!' said the Professor, in a tone 
 of surprise. 
 
 * Yes, Alpha's.' 
 
 ' Why^ God bless my soul ! the child isn't more 
 than fourteen !' 
 
 ' I think you are mistaken. Her aunt said she 
 was eighteen.' 
 
 ' Eighteen ! Impossible ! impossible ! My dear 
 wife only died in 18 — , and Alpha was but two at 
 the time.*
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 213 
 
 * Well, if you calculate, I think you will find that 
 that makes her eighteen.' 
 
 * So it does !' cried the Professor, after a mental 
 calculation. 'I had no conception that she had 
 reached a marriageable age. Ah, time passes like a 
 dream ! We wake and find our hair white, and our 
 children arrived at maturity.' 
 
 The flight of time was so fascinating a subject, 
 that the Professor could not help leaning back in his 
 chair, and, forgetful of Harold's presence, giving him- 
 self up to its contemplation. 
 
 * Yes,' he muttered, ' men may play or work, but 
 Time journeys onward with equal strides. No one 
 complains that Time moves at too slow a pace for 
 bim. The Latin poets have many observations on 
 this head. Ovid compares Time to the waters of a 
 swift-flowing river, gliding onwards unmarked and 
 unperceived ; and again he speaks of Time flying 
 with rapid foot. And Seneca, too, I remember, 
 remarks upon the swiftness of Time, made evident 
 to us when we look back upon the past. I remem- 
 ber, too ' 
 
 Harold was getting impatient, and, as the Pro- 
 fessor's soliloquy showed no signs of coming to an
 
 214 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 end, he repeated his former method of attracting the 
 good man's attention. 
 
 ' Ah !' exclaimed the Professor, once more brought 
 back from the land of reverie ; * I had forgotten your 
 presence. Pardon me. You were saying ' 
 
 ' I was speaking of my affection for your daughter/ 
 said Harold, determined to keep a tight rein on the 
 Professor's fancy. 
 
 ' Exactly. "Well, I don't know that I can say any- 
 thing ' 
 
 *I think my station ' 
 
 *I will not go into that,' said the Professor, rising 
 from his seat and standing before the empty grate, 
 as though the imaginary warmth it threw out was 
 very welcome to him. * Station is a mere adven- 
 titious circumstance, of small importance beside 
 other circumstances affecting the matrimonial con- 
 dition — though, no doubt, equality of station be- 
 tween bride and bridegroom is very essential to 
 that perfect felicity which should exist in marriage, 
 -^schylus makes an observation on this head in the 
 " Prometheus," where he says that one should marry 
 in one's own sphere. And again, Euripides, in the 
 *'Electra" — I was reading th e passage but yes terd a}' — 
 asserts that a man who allies himself with a woman
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 215 
 
 of noble lineage loses bis identity in ber superior 
 magnificence, and becomes a sort of inferior satellite 
 revolving about ber. Indeed, I migbt sa}^ ' 
 
 ' May I ask you, sir/ interposed Harold, ' wbetber 
 my suit meets witb your approbation V 
 
 * Oh, quite, quite ! But as I was saying, on this 
 interesting point, it is bardly possible to have two 
 opinions. For suppose ' 
 
 Tbe Professor never completed bis sentence, 
 which would probably have given a fine ex- 
 hibition of his argumentative powers — not a dry, 
 marrowless syllogism, but a palpitating piece of 
 reasoning, full of warm colouring and rich illustra- 
 tion. But it was never uttered, for Harold was 
 gone, and the Professor's eyes, after vainly roaming 
 round the room in search of him, settled on the 
 open manuscript upon his desk, and thus at once 
 turned the current of his thoughts. He wiped his 
 glasses carefully, replaced them on his nose, and re- 
 sumed his work as though no interruption had taken 
 place. 
 
 Harold passed out into the garden, where he 
 found his gentle lady-love busy with her needle. 
 She was indeed needlewoman in ordinary to the 
 household, for her wayward sister had never had
 
 216 THE PEOFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 sufficient patience to learn the art of sewing. Harold 
 sat down beside her, and approached the subject of 
 his visit with his usual directness. 
 
 ' Miss Hewitson/ he said, glancing at her clear- 
 cut profile — the downcast eye almost concealed by 
 the long brown lashes as she watched her needle — 
 *your father has given me leave to speak to you on 
 a delicate matter.' 
 
 A faint pink flush spread over her cheek, and the 
 needle was plied faster than ever. 
 
 * I will not beat about the bush/ he continued, 
 * but tell you at once that I love you.' He passed 
 one hand round her waist, and with the other ar- 
 rested the progress of the energetic little needle. 
 
 * Tell me, will you be my wife V 
 
 Still looking downward, as a modest maiden 
 should at such a moment, she murmured a gentle, 
 long-drawn * Yes.' 
 
 Harold drew her tenderly towards him, and im- 
 printed a kiss upon her cheek to seal the contract. 
 
 * I am sure we shall be happy together/ he said, 
 *for we are neither of us by nature very passionate, 
 and shall therefore find it easier to give way to each 
 other/ 
 
 ' I shall take my opinions from you,' said Alpha,
 
 7 
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 21 
 
 * and therefore you will never have to give way to 
 me.' 
 
 ' I am to always have my own way ? Take care, 
 or I shall become so conceited as to be unbearable.' 
 
 ' Well, then, you shall give way to me on little 
 points sometimes, to keep your pride in check.' 
 
 * And you are happy, Alpha ?' 
 ' Very happy !' 
 
 Even clergymen, when their wooing has been 
 brought to a joyful conclusion, are not exempt from 
 the usual lover's weakness of uttering sweet non- 
 sense ; therefore it is as well to pass over the con- 
 versation between Harold and Alpha until it be- 
 came once more the language of two rational 
 beings. 
 
 'I did not see your sister in the house,* said 
 Harold. ' Where is she V 
 
 ' I don't know,' replied Alpha, ' though I suspect 
 that she is to be found with Mrs. Venner — or, if not 
 with her, then with her son.' 
 
 * Do you think there is anything between them V 
 
 ' Meggy confessed one day that she had a strong 
 regard for Charles, and I feel sure that he returns 
 it.' 
 
 'Why?'
 
 218 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 * I have seen them exchanging whispers together, 
 and she has a ring on her finger which 1 fancy must 
 have come from him, and they are much in each 
 other's company. Meggy, however, has never 
 willingly confided anything to me ; and the little 1 
 have managed to extract from her seems to have 
 made her fearful of my learning more, for she keeps 
 away from me as much as possible.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear that — the more so because I 
 think your counsel might be of use to her. I must 
 confess I have no very high opinion of Mr. 
 Venner.' 
 
 ' You do not know ' 
 
 ' I know nothing against him, and I am perhaps 
 guilty of injustice in expressing such an opinion of 
 a man whom I scarcely know. At the same time, 
 he strikes me as having a double allowance of cun- 
 ning in his disposition, and he wants that frank, 
 honest expression which characterizes most of our 
 young men. But what can you expect from his 
 bringing-up ! He has been deprived of the one 
 thing calculated to develop the higher qualities in a 
 boy — association with other boys.' 
 
 ' I hope your estimate of him is wrong.' 
 
 * So do I ; but at any rate I should like to gain
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 219 
 
 the confidence of your sister — who will soon, I hope, 
 become a sister to me — and help her with my ad- 
 vice. She seems to be rather afraid of me at present ; 
 perhaps she will become less timid when she learns 
 that I am to be her brother-in-law.' 
 
 Miss Hewitson and Mrs. Mappertree at this 
 moment made their appearance, and were duly in- 
 formed of the happy answer that Harold's suit had 
 received. They both protested that they were ex- 
 cessively surprised, and indeed hardly able to credit 
 the news, which was somewhat unnatural, consider- 
 ing that from an upper window of the cottage they 
 had both been spectators of the little play enacted 
 by the two lovers. 
 
 After the usual congratulations^ and a tender 
 narration by Miss Hewitson of her own unhappy 
 passion, which she embellished with many imaginary 
 circumstances for the occasion, Harold took an 
 affectionate leave of his sweetheart, and withdrew 
 with a feeling of happiness in his heart that he 
 had never known before.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It happened that on the afternoon of this same day, 
 Harold started up the mountains to visit a farm 
 lying on the very border of his parish. The day 
 was very warm and bright, though the scanty 
 brown foliage of the trees showed that winter was 
 at hand. He walked up the steep ascent through a 
 forest of tall larch trees, standing stiffly erect, row 
 after row, like a battalion of soldiers, and by the 
 side of a mountain stream that leapt and crawled 
 and dashed itself into foam, and circled round 
 opposing boulders, and generally exhibited all the 
 vagaries natural to mountain streams. At length, 
 he emerged from the gloomy wood on to a fairly 
 level piece of country, shaped somewhat like a basin, 
 and parcelled out into small farms, the boundaries 
 of each being well defined by substantial stone 
 walls. Down the middle ran a small stream, look- 
 ing like a streak of quicksilver in the sunshine,
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 221 
 
 and bordered by clumps of elms and oaks and birch 
 trees. 
 
 In the whole prospect there appeared no sign of 
 life, except here and there a herd of wild-looking" 
 cattle, though the smoke that rose from the scat- 
 tered whitewashed cottages showed that the place 
 did not lack inhabitants. From the point which he 
 had gained, Harold, by turning his back to the 
 scene just described, could see the estuary lying as 
 it were almost at his feet, with the tide rushinij 
 fiercely up, and forming oases of the yellow sand, 
 which gradually contracted in size until they disap- 
 peared beneath the devouring element. Beyond the 
 estuary was a picturesque accumulation of hills, 
 rising one above the other until they culminated in 
 the great black, frowning range that bit into the 
 soft blue of the sky. Harold had no more than the 
 ordinary amount of appreciation for fine scenery, 
 but he could not help feeling the beaut}^ of the 
 situation as he paused to regain breath after his 
 toilsome ascent. Setting out again, he passed by 
 the gaping mouth of an old mine from which some 
 sanguine individuals had in time past fondly 
 imagined that gold might be extracted in sufficient 
 quantity to realize handsome fortunes.
 
 222 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 ^ 
 
 At length he reached the farmhouse that was his 
 destination, and, avoiding the treacherous-looking 
 dogs who were barking themselves hoarse in their 
 determination to let him know that he was an in- 
 truder, knocked gently at the door, and passed in. 
 
 The woman of the house greeted him with a 
 smile, and, suspending her operation of washing, 
 held out her hand, after having wiped it dry with 
 her apron. Harold shook it warmly, and began a 
 conversation, which, as it was carried on in Welsh, 
 would scarcely prove interesting to English readers. 
 The object of his journey having been secured, 
 Harold rose to depart; but before leaving he was 
 compelled to satisfy the hospitable instincts of the 
 old dame by accepting a piece of oatmeal cake, and 
 a D-lass of new milk to wash it down. 
 
 o 
 
 He had walked for some distance, following the 
 line of the little stream as it flowed with many a 
 contortion in the centre of the plain, when he came 
 suddenly upon two figures, seated upon a large 
 boulder, at the foot of an oak, with tlieir backs 
 towards him. He recognised them at once as Omega 
 and Charles, and paused for a moment to consider 
 whether it would be advisable to disturb them. 
 While in this momentary state of doubt, he heard
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 223 
 
 Charles's voice speaking in a harsh, angry tone; 
 and, without further hesitation, he walked up and 
 confronted them. Charles coloured violently at the 
 sight of him, while Omega vainly endeavoured to 
 conceal the fact that she had been crying. 
 
 * I thought I couldn't mistake your backs/ said 
 Harold, wishing to give them time to recover them- 
 selves. ' I have been visiting a parishioner of mine 
 whose cottage you can just see over there, and I 
 thought a walk by this stream would be a pleasant 
 way of getting back again. Are you going home- 
 wards ?' 
 
 ' Yes/ answered Omega. ' We came farther than 
 we intended — and I feel tired.' 
 
 ' Will you take my arm V 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Charles was standing on one side, with a very 
 sullen expression on his face. ' A lovers' quarrel, 
 evidently,' thought Harold, ' and I am perhaps 
 wrong to interfere ; but it is too late to retreat now, 
 so I must bear with the unpleasant looks of the 
 gentleman, and do my best to heal the injured feel- 
 ings of the lady.' 
 
 ' We shall soon have the winter upon us now,' he 
 said, as he and Omega walked onwards, while
 
 224 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 Charles followed some two or three steps in their 
 rear, ' and the poor people living in these mountain 
 farms will have a hard time of it. And yet, I 
 believe, however great their distress, they never 
 complain. Is it not so ?' 
 
 * Yes ; they are very brave and good/ 
 
 * I am glad to hear you praise them. The poor 
 deserve praise when they bear their sufferings 
 with patient fortitude. Don't you think so, Mr. 
 Venner V 
 
 * I don't know, and I don't care !' replied Charles 
 sharply. 
 
 * Well,' said Harold, taking no notice of his com- 
 panion's surliness, ' it is fortunate for the poor that 
 it is the business of some people to look after them. 
 It is my business, and I dare not neglect it. I must 
 enlist your father. Miss Hewitson, in my service, or 
 rather, I should say, in the service of God ; he is so 
 excellent and kind-hearted a man, that I know he 
 will not refuse.' 
 
 He paused to give Omega an opportunity of 
 saying a few words, which might be the means of 
 distracting her thoughts from the evidently dis- 
 tressing subject that occupied her mind ; but, as 
 she did not avail herself of it, he continued his
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 225 
 
 desultory remarks in the hope that he might pre- 
 sently be more successful. 
 
 * It is predicted that the winter will be a severe 
 one^ and, in that case, the distress among the poor 
 will be great. Your father and your aunt must join 
 me in organizing some means of relief — that is, if 
 relief be absolutely necessary. Otherwise, I think 
 relief is a fatal mistake, for it destroys the noble 
 spirit of independence among the people. Don't you 
 think so V 
 
 ' I beg your pardon !' cried Omega, with a start, 
 as if awaking from a dream ; ' I am afraid ' 
 
 ' You were not listening ! Well, perhaps you were 
 wise, for I was prosing terribly. Can you not start 
 some pleasing subject V 
 
 ' I cannot/ she answered, with a sigh. 
 
 'Look what a beautiful effect the sun has upon 
 the mountain over there,' said Harold, determined if 
 possible to secure her attention. ' It looks as if it 
 were on fire. Isn't it beautiful V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * Don't you love to look on beautiful things like 
 that V 
 
 'Sometimes.' 
 
 * They always make me think how small an item 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 225 THE PROFESSOR AND EIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 is man in the scheme of creation. Nature is a won- 
 derful teacher, if we read her correctly. Tell me, 
 don^t you feel such a scene as that strike some inward 
 chord ? It seems to invite us to cast aside all un- 
 happy thoughts, and to go on our way with bright, 
 cheerful hearts.' 
 
 * Do you think so V 
 
 * Yes. No one ought to be gratuitously unhappy 
 — that is to say, unless there is some real, weighty 
 cause for it. Life is necessarily associated v/ith 
 trials, which must be met with calm resignation ; 
 but, for the rest, it is our duty to derive as much 
 happiness as possible from it. We were not sent 
 into the world to be miserable, but to extract as 
 much honest enjoyment from it as we can. Do you 
 understand me V 
 
 Meggy returned no answer, but gave a look over 
 her shoulder at Charles, who was savagely striking 
 off the heads of wild flowers with his cane. Harold 
 understood the look as a kind of appeal to him to 
 effect a reconciliation between her and her frowning 
 lover. He therefore turned to Charles, and said in 
 a genial manner : 
 
 ' Mr. Venner, I am afraid my prosy conversation 
 has failed to interest Miss Hewitson, and I am sure
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 227 
 
 she would derive more pleasure from yours. Let me 
 surrender ray place to you.' 
 
 ' By no means/ said Charles. ' Miss Hewitson must 
 appreciate the fine sermonizing flavour in your re- 
 marks, so pray continue them.' 
 
 ' But she may like yours, which lack the fine 
 sermonizing flavour you speak of, better/ said Harold, 
 keeping his temper, though slightly stungby Charles's 
 sneering manner. 
 
 ' Well, then, she'll have to do without them.' 
 ' At least, you might be civil !' exclaimed Harold 
 warmly. * It is scarcely a sign of good breed- 
 ing ' 
 
 ' Sir,' cried Charles, ' keep your confounded 
 goody-goody trash for Miss Hewitson ; it's wasted 
 on me.' 
 
 'I do not understand,' said Harold, recovering his 
 usual equanimity, ' how you expect to gain this 
 lady's esteem by showing yourself wanting in all 
 
 gentlemanly ' 
 
 * I am sorry I cannot wait to hear the whole of 
 your lecture ; another time, perhaps, I may have 
 more leisure. Good-day.' 
 
 As he strode away from them, twirling his cane 
 and continuing his savage onslauglit upon the 
 
 15—2
 
 228 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 flowers, Harold noticed that Omega's eyes were fixed 
 upon the retreating figure with a painful expression^ 
 and that her underlip quivered with emotion. A 
 moment later her fortitude failed her, and the tears 
 followed one another in rapid succession down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' You are unhappy,' said Harold, taking hold of 
 her hand. ' Will you not tell me your sorrow^ and 
 let me try to dry your tears V 
 
 ' It is nothing,' she replied, sobbing. ' I am very 
 foolish — that is all.' 
 
 ' Is it only a lovers' quarrel ? Do not think me 
 impertinent in asking, for I am but taking the privi- 
 lege of a future brother-in-law in interesting myself 
 in all that concerns your happiness.' 
 
 Omega looked up inquiringly into his face. 
 
 ' Yes/ he continued, ' your sister will be my wife 
 one of these days, and so I am entitled to know and 
 to participate in your griefs. But you are too 
 young to know any real ones yet ; for, although a 
 lovers' quarrel may seem to you a real grief, it is 
 one that is easily remedied.' 
 
 Omega made no answer, but sighed. 
 
 ' I will call upon Mr. Venner, if you like, to-mor- 
 row '
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 229 
 
 ' No, no! I beg of you not to. I am ashamed that 
 he should have treated you so rudely.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not be concerned about that. Men must 
 expect to meet with rebuffs at times, and I trust I 
 can take them without any after ill-feeling. I 
 dare say, too, he is sorry now that he left without 
 apologizing for his loss of temper. When you see 
 him again ' 
 
 * I never shall see him again !' 
 
 Harold smiled at the vehemence with which she 
 uttered these words, for he took them to represent 
 merely one of those determinations which young 
 lovers make after a quarrel, and which are as lasting 
 as ice under the heat of a noontide sun. 
 
 * Well, Omega — if you will let me call you so — 
 before we part let me beg of you to remember that 
 there will be a very close relationship between us 
 shortly; entitling me to your confidence, which you 
 may be sure I will not betray. As we shall cease to 
 be strangers in our mutua] relationship, let us cease 
 to be strangers in our hearts. Treat me as you would 
 a dear brother, to whom you could ccnfide your 
 inmost secrets, knowing that he would respect 
 them, and that his counsel would be only for your 
 good. No one is fitted to act always upon his own.
 
 230 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 judgment only ; he is sure to make mistakes. How- 
 much more then in the case of a young girl, who ife 
 totally ipexperienced in the ways of life, and has no 
 watchful mother to guard her ! Make me your true 
 brother, Omega; confide to me your doubts and 
 anxieties, and I will give you true and honest 
 counsel.' 
 
 He pressed her hand before leaving, while she, 
 with the tears again gathering in her eyes, gave 
 him a look that spoke eloquently of the impression 
 his words had wrought upon her. 
 
 * You are very good — and very kind — but I have 
 no need of your counsel.' Then in a low tone, 
 inaudible to him, she added, ' It is too late !' 
 
 The next minute she was walking alone along 
 the road leading to the cottage, leaving Harold 
 somewhat perplexed at the strange obstinacy with 
 which she resisted all his attempts to gain her 
 confidence.
 
 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 Harold's prediction concerning the coming winter 
 proved to be correct. It came with a severity that 
 had been unknown for 3^ears, and gave every sign 
 of making a long stay. It covered the level ground 
 as well as the sloping sides of the mountains 
 with layer upon layer of fleecy snow ; in the 
 depth of the woods it bound the withered leaves 
 which carpeted the earth into a consistency like 
 that of iron ; it hung from the roadside walls, 
 whence in summer crystal streams issued from 
 their passage underground, in the form of pendent 
 icicles, ranged side by side in unequal lengths like 
 the pipes of an organ ; it appeared on the broad 
 bosom of the estuary in gigantic masses of mingled 
 ice and snow, which travelled backwards and for- 
 wards with each recurring tide, and only Ibund a 
 temporary rest when at low water their course was 
 interrupted by a friendly sandbank.
 
 232 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 People went about with the whole of their ward- 
 robes upon their backs, witli red noses and dewy 
 moustaches, with shrugged shoulders and with hands 
 thrust into the very depths of their pockets. Sheep 
 congregated in scattered bodies under the shelter of 
 gorse and heather, and bleated forth the most piteous 
 of lamentations. Birds lost their natural timidity, 
 and came as suppliants to cottage doors, looking 
 with envious eyes upon the children with their thick 
 slices of bread-and-butter. The sky was leaden- 
 hued, as though it contained tons upon tons of snow 
 to shower down upon the afflicted earth ; and the 
 air seemed to be filled with an oppressive heaviness 
 that entered into one's very soul. 
 
 It was indeed a winter, and the only comfort 
 which everyone had was that he had been the very 
 first to predict it. To the rich, it made little diflfer- 
 ence, only compelling them to remain within doors 
 and to regard the prospect outside from a comfort- 
 able position before a roaring fire ; but to the poor, 
 it brought sad distress and privation. 
 
 The Professor had, at the suggestion of Harold, 
 organized a soup-kitchen, which helped in some 
 measure to relieve the more pressing wants of the 
 people, though it was not without difficulty that
 
 THE PROFESSOR AKD HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 OQQ 
 
 Harold could persuade them to accept charity. Miss 
 Hewitson, with her own fair hands, helped to pre- 
 pare the tempting decoction, which was, however, 
 much diluted by the tears that were constantly 
 dropping from the sympathetic eyes of Mrs. Mapper- 
 tree. This excellent woman was much distressed at 
 the sufferings that were being so frequently brought 
 before her notice, and fell in consequence into so deep 
 a stage of melancholy, that not even her favourite 
 author could afford her any comfort. Each morning 
 the kitchen was thrown open to a crowd of poor 
 people^ comprising women and children and a few 
 men, whose pinched faces and eager ej^es showed 
 liow good a right they had to the relief provided for 
 them, though, even in their piteous extremity, they 
 kept up an independent spirit. 
 
 They accepted the relief w^ith thankfulness, and 
 blessed the givers with the honest fervour peculiar 
 to a Celtic people. But, at the same time, they ac- 
 cepted it, not as a charitable gift, but as a benevolent 
 loan, which was to be repaid by them in the shape 
 of eggs, milk, and poultry, when spring came to 
 their rescue. 
 
 While Miss Hewitson was busy with her ladle, 
 the Professor would stand by with folded arms, and
 
 234 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 watch the countenances of the people. Sorrow and 
 happiness at the same n:iomeiit occux:)ied his lieart : 
 sorrow, because the people suffered; happiness, be- 
 cause it was in his power to relieve their distress. 
 
 * There is no pleasure/ he would say, ' equal to 
 the pleasure we feel when administering to the 
 wants of others.' 
 
 The Professor felt the cold much, and, for the 
 most part, kept himself snugly in his own room, in 
 company with a bright burning wood-fire. He had 
 plenty to occupy his time, for, when not engaged 
 upon the work (which, as he remarked in a letter 
 to Phillips, was progressing capitally), he was occu- 
 pied in reading treatises upon the Culture of Roses. 
 The * Vade Mecum ' was no longer consulted. It 
 rested uncared-for on the top shelf of his library, 
 with a layer of dust upon its cover ; for it must be 
 confessed the Professor had lost all confidence in it 
 since the unhappy result that had attended his first 
 experiment in gardening. To be sure, the seeds 
 had sprung up in the jauntiest manner ; but even 
 to the unprofessional eye there was something 
 strange and mysterious in the way in which carrots 
 mingled with radishes, and onions wdth turnips. 
 The Professor, however, still stood stoutly by his
 
 THE PROFESSOK AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 235 
 
 guns, and held that, as the seed-sowing had pro- 
 duced the desired result — namely, the orrowth of 
 vegetables — it could not be said to be absolutely 
 wroDg until it had been shown that the vegetables 
 had suffered from the way in which the operation 
 had been conducted. But, in his heart, he was 
 compelled to admit that he had been guilty of a 
 blunder ; and he had determined in the coming 
 spring to devote his leisure hours to the growing of 
 roses, an occupation in which he was safe against 
 the ridicule of his servant Humphrey, for the latter 
 was as iojnorant as his master of all knowledoje of 
 this branch of horticulture. 
 
 It must not be supposed that the Professor was 
 so wholly engrossed in mastering the science of 
 rose-growing (upon paper), and in scribbling pages 
 of manuscript to the glory of the immortal tragic 
 poets of Greece, that he had no time to notice how 
 various things of great interest were going on in his 
 household. 
 
 He had been rather startled one day by seeing a 
 kiss pass between his elder daughter and Harold, 
 and had determined to address Alpha on the indeli- 
 cacy of a young girl allowing a stranger to press her 
 lips, when it suddenly dawned upon him that Harold
 
 236 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 had made her a proposal of marriage, and had been 
 accepted. Since then, by some strange concurrence 
 of events, the poor gentleman had constantlj^ found 
 himself stumbling upon the young couple at the 
 very moment when some sweet endearment — not 
 meant to be witnessed — was passing between them, 
 at which times he would colour to the roots of his 
 hair, and make a hasty and undignified retreat. 
 Though the engagement was certainly not distaste- 
 ful to him as an engagement, yet it is probable that 
 the Professor would have been better pleased if the 
 new relationship between his daughter and his 
 young friend had not been formed quite so soon. 
 He found Harold no longer willing to listen to him 
 while he recited whole pages from his work ; the 
 young man seemed to have lost all sympathy with 
 the ancients since he had taken to reading the heart 
 of a fair young modern. And Alpha, too, who used 
 to pass so much of her time in the Professor's study, 
 silently sewing, had now quite given up her father's 
 company for that of her lover. It was perfectly 
 natural, however; for love, though a delightful 
 passion, is a terribly selfish one, and is wholly given 
 up to its own gratification. 
 
 But, as in most cases where something is lost
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 237 
 
 there are generally to be found compensating cir- 
 cumstances, so in this case the absence of Harold 
 and Alpha from the Professor's study was to some 
 extent made up for by the more frequent presence 
 of his sister. Miss Hewitson, indeed^ exhibited at 
 this period a serenity of mind and a kindliness of 
 manner that were quite unusual to her. Mrs. Map- 
 pert ree felt her perpetual flow of tears freezing at 
 their fount, so astonished was she at the almost ab- 
 solute cessation of hard words from her dear friend ; 
 while the servants were able to enjoy a freedom 
 from supervision which the poor creatures could 
 scarcely credit. And yet the cause was simpl}^ th& 
 reflected pleasure Miss Hewitson experienced in 
 watching the love-play that was proceeding so 
 smoothly and pleasantly within the walls of her 
 own household. Though she was not allowed to be 
 present at the interviews that took place between 
 the young people, yet Alpha was prudent enough 
 to acquaint her with very many sweet and tender 
 particulars ; and, besides the information thus ob- 
 tained, Miss Hewitson had other ways of satisfying 
 her curiosit}^, which, if not approved of by the 
 sterner sex, are yet adopted by ladies of the strictest 
 principles. Thus it was that this excellent woman,
 
 238 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 happy in being as it were an accessory in a real love- 
 drama, subdued her natural asperity of manner, and 
 became for the time a changed being. 
 
 And Omega ? 
 
 Ah ! there was a stranoe alteration in her. The 
 
 o 
 
 once bright, high-spirited girl had become sad and 
 silent. It seemed as if melancholy had marked her 
 for its own. For the most part, she shunned the 
 compan}^ of her father and sister, and sat brooding 
 within her own room. For hours she would sit 
 thus, gazing through the window at the bare trees 
 with their trunks and boughs whitened with snow, 
 as though some terrible idea haunted her brain with 
 ruthless persistency. Occasionall}^, in the presence 
 of her father, she assumed a cheerful appearance; 
 but it was so forced that, if left for five minutes to 
 herself, the smile faded from her cheek, and the 
 troubled, half-conscious look now so natural to her 
 reappea^red. 
 
 Towards her sister she showed a feeling almost 
 approaching to aversion; and, when Harold visited 
 the house, she carefully avoided him. It seemed as 
 though their happiness jarred upon her feelings, 
 forcing her to compare it with her own wretched- 
 ness. Day followed day, but worked no change in
 
 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 239 
 
 her ; there was the same unnatural silence, the same 
 weary brooding as she sat in the privacy of her own 
 room, and gazed upon the bare trees with their 
 whitened trunks and boughs. 
 
 It must not be supposed that this change was 
 lost upon so observant n person as Miss Hewitson ; 
 but, as she was able in her own mind to establish a 
 good reason for it, she considered it unnecessary and 
 unwise to make it the subject of remark. A very 
 full account of all that had passed between Harold 
 and Omega on the occasion of their meeting up in 
 the hills had been given to her by Alpha; and it 
 needed no great exertion of intellect on her part 
 to conjecture that the intimacy between Omega and 
 Charles, which she had been the first to detect, was 
 definitely broken off. For what reason it had been 
 broken off did not matter; it was sufiicient for her 
 that it afforded a very excellent cause for tiie 
 subsequent low spirits of the girl. 
 
 ' Let her mope it out by herself,' said Miss Hewit- 
 son ; ' slie will soon get over it. My case was much 
 the same as hers, but I got over it. I was very un- 
 happy, just like her; but at last I gave up moping, 
 and became a rational woman again. Leave her to 
 herself; she will soon lind that her heart isn't quite
 
 240 THE PROFESSOR AND HIS DAUGHTERS. 
 
 SO broken as she thinks, and then she will quickly 
 recover her spirits.' 
 
 The advice of Miss Hewitson was followed, and 
 the girl was left to herself — 'to brood for hours in 
 the silence of her room, and w^atch, with the same 
 pained, half-conscious gaze, the bare trees with their 
 trunks and boughs enwrapped in snow. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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