Part 13 (2/2)

”That is very sad; but when one has social gatherings, one never does have a word with anybody. I think that must be the object of them--to accustom people to do without human sympathy.”

Temperley tried to start a conversation, taking a place beside her, on the seat, and setting himself to draw her out. It was obvious that he found her interesting, either as a study or in a less impersonal sense.

Hadria, feeling that her character was being a.n.a.lysed, did what many people do without realizing it: she instinctively arranged its lights and shades with a view to artistic effect. It was not till late that night, when the events of the day pa.s.sed before her in procession, that she recognized what she had done, and laughed at herself. She had not attempted to appear in a better light than she deserved; quite as often as not, she submitted to appear in a worse light; her effort had been to satisfy some innate sense of proportion or form. The instinct puzzled her.

Also she became aware that she was interested in Hubert Temperley. Or was it that she was interested in his interest in her? She could not be certain. She thought it was direct interest. She felt eager to know more of him; above all, to hear him play.

On returning to the house, after Temperley had, at last, felt compelled to depart, Hadria found her father and mother and their guest, gathered together before the cheery fire in the study. Hearing his daughter's step, her father opened the door and called her in. Till now, the Professor had not seen her, having been hurried into the house, to change his clothes and have something to eat.

As she entered, rather shyly, he rose and gave a gasp of astonishment.

”You mean to tell me that this is the little girl who used to take me for walks, and who had such an inordinate appet.i.te for stories! Good heavens, it is incredible!”

He held out a thin, finely-formed hand, with a kind smile.

”They change so much at that age, in a short time,” said Mrs. Fullerton, with a glance of pride; for her daughter was looking brilliantly handsome, as she stood before them, with flushed cheeks and a soft expression, which the mere tones of the Professor's voice had power to summon in most human faces. He looked at her thoughtfully, and then rousing himself, he brought up a chair for her, and the group settled again before the fire.

”Do you know,” said the Professor, ”I was turning into a French sweet-shop the other day, to buy my usual tribute for the children, when I suddenly remembered that they would no longer be children, and had to march out again, crestfallen, musing on the march of time and the mutability of things human--especially children.”

”It's ridiculous,” cried Mr. Fullerton. ”I am always lecturing them about it, but they go on growing just the same.”

”And how they make you feel an old fogey before you know where you are!

And I thought I was quite a gay young fellow, upon my word!”

”You, my dear Chantrey! why you'd be a gay young fellow at ninety!” said Mr. Fullerton.

The Professor laughed and shook his head.

”And so this is really my little playfellow!” he exclaimed, nodding meditatively. ”I remember her so well; a queer, fantastic little being in those days, with hair like a black cloud, and eyes that seemed to peer out of the cloud, with a perfect pa.s.sion of enquiry. She used to bewilder me, I remember, with her strange, wise little sayings! I always prophesied great things from her! Ernest, too, I remember: a fine little chap with curly, dark hair--rather like a young Italian, but with features less broadly cast; drawn together and calmed by his northern blood. Yes, yes; it seems but yesterday,” he said, with a smile and a sigh; ”and now my little Italian is at college, with a bored manner and a high collar.”

”Oh, no; Ernest's a dear boy still,” cried Hadria. ”Oxford hasn't spoilt him a bit. I do wish he was at home for you to see him.”

”Ah! you mustn't hint at anything against Ernest in Hadria's presence!”

cried Mr. Fullerton, with an approving laugh.

”Not for the world!” rejoined the Professor. ”I was only recalling one or two of my young Oxford acquaintances. I might have known that a Fullerton had too much stuff in him to make an idiot of himself in that way.”

”The boy has distinguished himself too,” said Mr. Fullerton.

”Everyone says he will do splendidly,” added the mother; ”and you can't think how modest he is about himself, and how anxious to do well, and to please us by his success.”

”Ah! that's good.”

The Professor was full of sympathy. Hadria was astonished to see how animated her mother had become under his influence.

They fell again to recalling old times; little trivial incidents which had seemed so unimportant at the moment, but now carried a whole epoch with them, bringing back, with a rush, the genial memories. Hadria remembered that soon after his last visit, the Professor had married a beautiful wife, and that about a year or so later, the wife had died. It was said that she had killed herself. This set Hadria speculating.

The visitor reminded his companions of various absurd incidents of the past, sending Mr. Fullerton into paroxysms of laughter that made the whole party laugh in sympathy. Mrs. Fullerton too was already wiping her streaming eyes as the Professor talked on in his old vein, with just that particular little humourous manner of his that won its way so surely to the hearts of his listeners. For a moment, in the midst of the bright talk and the mirth that he had created, the Professor lost the thread, and his face, as he stared into the glowing centre of the fire, had a desolate look; but it was so quick to pa.s.s away that one might have thought oneself the victim of a fancy. His was the next chuckle, and ”Do you remember that day when----?” and so forth, Mr. Fullerton's healthy roar following, avalanche-like, upon the reminiscence.

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