"No," said Tredennis, hurriedly. "Do not let that trouble you. What I have thought is so trivial and vague that it should not weigh at all. It has only been because I remembered her girlhood, and—and I thought her changed—and did not understand."
"Ah!" said the professor, letting his face fall upon both his hands. "That is not his trouble; he understands, and that is his strength. He has had his evil hour, that composed, well-dressed fellow, and he did not come out of it without scars. He covers them well, with his light overcoat and the rose in his buttonhole, but they are there, and they have made him wise. He has been silent, but he has looked on too,—as I have,—and he has seen what others were blind to. She has never suspected him, but his knowledge has given him power. When her mauvais quart d'heure has come upon her he has known what to say and what to avoid saying, and while she has not comprehended his motives she has been grateful to him. She has liked his songs and his readiness, and his unsentimental air, and she has unconsciously learned to rely on him. Her first sincere liking for him arose from her discovery of his inconsistent and incongruous knack with the children. She had thought of him as a rather clever, selfish, well-mannered creature, and once in a juvenile crisis he surprised her by developing natural gifts—somewhat cold-blooded, but still amazingly effective. The children began to be fond of him, and his path was smoothed. She began to be fond of him herself, genuinely and simply, and if it had ended there she would have been safer than before. But it did not end there, I suppose. The cup and saucer were not broken too soon this evening,—they were not broken soon enough."
"It was not an accident?" exclaimed Tredennis.
"No, it was not an accident. I have heard his 'Serenade' before. There is the danger. He means no harm; but his 'Serenade' and the moments when what is past gets the better of him, and the little touches of passion his overcoat won't always cover, and the bits of sincerity he struggles against and she ponders over, are good for neither him nor her. I have heard his 'Serenade' before; but to-night, when she got up and followed him as if he had called her, and—and she had only half heard his voice and yet must obey it; and when she stood there against the wall, with her pale face, and her soft eyes fixed on him, it was time for some common thing to happen to bring her back to life,—and the cup and saucer were offered as the sacrifice."
He said it whimsically, and yet sadly.
"Poor child!" he added. "Poor child! I dare say it was hard enough."
He paused a moment, and then rose, went to Tredennis's side, and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"There," he said,—"there is the confession, and I can make my appeal to you with fewer words."
"Your appeal?" Tredennis repeated.
"I can ask you for your help."