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or two pictures； and one or two pieces of statuary which many an
aristocratic connoisseur might have envied。
When I and Frances have dined and spent an evening with
Hunsden； he often walks home with us。 His wood is large； and
some of the timber is old and of huge growth。 There are winding
ways in it which； pursued through glade and brake； make the walk
back to Daisy Lane a somewhat long one。 Many a time； when we
have had the benefit of a full moon； and when the night has been
mild and balmy； when； moreover； a certain nightingale has been
singing； and a certain stream； hid in alders； has lent the song a soft
accompaniment； the remote church…bell of the one hamlet in a
district of ten miles； has tolled midnight ere the lord of the wood
left us at our porch。 Free…flowing was his talk at such hours； and
far more quiet and gentle than in the day…time and before
numbers。 He would then forget politics and discussion； and would
dwell on the past times of his house； on his family history； on
himself and his own feelings—subjects each and all invested with
a peculiar zest； for they were each and all unique。 One glorious
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night in June； after I had been taunting him about his ideal bride
and asking him when she would come and graft her foreign beauty
on the old Hunsden oak； he answered suddenly—
“You call her ideal； but see； here is her shadow； and there
cannot be a shadow without a substance。”
He had led us from the depth of the “winding way” into a glade
from whence the beeches withdrew； leaving it open to the sky； an
unclouded moon poured her light into this glade； and Hunsden
held out under her beam an ivory miniature。
Frances； with eagerness； examined it first； then she gave it to
me—still； however； pushing her little face close to mine； and
seeking in my eyes what I thought of the portrait。 I thought it
represented a very handsome and very individual…looking female
face； with； as he had once said； “straight and harmonious
features。” It was dark； the hair； raven…black； swept not only from
the brow； but from the temples—seemed thrust away carelessly； as
if such beauty dispensed with； nay； despised arrangement。 The
Italian eye looked straight into you； and an independent；
determined eye it was； the mouth was as firm as fine； the chin
ditto。 On the back of the miniature was gilded “Lucia。”
“That is a real head；” was my conclusion。
Hunsden smiled。
“I think so；” he replied。 “All was real in Lucia。”
“And she was somebody you would have liked to marry—but
could not？”
“I should certainly have liked to marry her； and that I have not
done so is a proof that I could not。”
He repossessed himself of the miniature； now again in Frances’
hand； and put it away。
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The Professor 309
“What do you think of it？” he asked of my wife； as he buttoned
his coat over it。
“I am sure Lucia once wore chains and broke them；” was the
strange answer。 “I do not mean matrimonial chains；” she added；
correcting herself； as if she feared misinterpretation； “but social
chains of some sort。 The face is that of one who has made an effort；
and a successful and triumphant effort； to wrest some vigorous
and valued faculty from insupportable constraint； and when
Lucia’s faculty got free； I am certain it spread wide pinions and
carried her higher than—” she hesitated。
“Than what？” demanded Hunsden。
“Than ‘les convenances’ permitted you to follow。”
“I think you grow spiteful—impertinent。”
“Lucia has trodden the stage；” continued Frances。 “You never
seriously thought of marrying her； you admired her originality；
her fearlessness； her energy of body and mind； you delighted in
her talent； whatever that was； whether song； dance； or dramatic
representation； you worshipped her beauty； which was of the sort
after your own heart： but I am sure she filled a sphere from
whence you would never have thought of taking a wife。”
“Ingenious；” remarked Hunsden； “whether true or not is
another question。 Meantime； don’t you feel your little lamp of a
spirit wax very pale； beside such a girandole as Lucia’s？”
“Yes。”
“Candid； at least； and the Professor will soon be dissatisfied
with the dim light you give？”
“Will you； monsieur？”
“My sight was always too weak to endure a blaze； Frances；” and
we had now reached the wicket。
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The Professor 310
I said； a few pages back； that this is a sweet summer evening； it
is—there has been a series of lovely days； and this is the loveliest；
the hay is just carried from my fields； its perfume still lingers in
the air。 Frances proposed to me； an hour or two since； to take tea
out on the lawn； I see the round table； loaded with china； placed
under a certain beech； Hunsden is expected—nay； I hear he is
come—there is his voice； laying down the law on some point with
authority； that of Frances replies； she opposes him of course。 They
are disputing about Victor； of whom Hunsden affirms that his
mother is making a milksop。 Mrs。 Crimsworth retaliates：—
“Better a thousand times he should be a milksop than what he；
Hunsden； calls ‘a fine lad；’ and moreover she says that if Hunsden
were to become a fixture in the neighbourhood； and were not a
mere comet； coming and going； no one knows how； when； where；
or why； she should be quite uneasy till she had got Victor away to
a school at least a hundred miles off； for that with his mutinous
maxims and unpractical dogmas； he would ruin a score of
children。”
I have a word to say of Victor ere I shut this manuscript in my
desk—but it must be a brief one； for I hear the tinkle of silver on
porcelain。
Victor is as little of a pretty child as I am of a handsome man； or
his mother of a fine woman； he is pale and spare； with large eyes；
as dark as those of Frances； and as deeply set as mine。 His shape is
symmetrical enough； but slight； his health is good。 I never saw a
child smile less than he does； nor one who knits such a formidable
brow when sitting over a book that interests him； or while
listening to tales of adventure； peril； or wonder； narrated by his
mother； Hunsden； or myself。 But though still； he is not unhappy—
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The Professor 311
though serious； not morose； he has a susceptibility to pleasurable
sensations almost too keen； for it amounts to enthusiasm。 He
learned to read in the old…fashioned way out of a spelling…book at
his mother’s knee； and as he got on without driving by that
method； she thought it unnecessary to buy him ivory letters； or to
try any of the other inducements to learning now deemed
indispensable。 When he could read； he became a glutton of books；
and is so still。 His toys have been few； and he has never wanted
more。 For those he possesses； he seems to have contracted a
partiality amounting to affection； this feeling； directed towards one
or two living animals of the house； strengthens almost to a passion。
Mr。 Hunsden gave him a mastiff cub； which he called Yorke；
after the donor； it grew to a superb dog； whose fierceness；
however； was much modified by the companionship and caresses
of