The Surrender of Professor Seymour

ADEMOISELLE VERRIER, the new nursery governess, sat diffidently on the edge of the chair the professor had offered her and looked at him with an alert interest in her dark eyes. She was young and rather nervous, and it was not reassuring to observe that her eminent employer had returned to his desk and was restlessly fumbling his papers, as if anxious to resume work on them. He did not speak for fully five minutes, though he glanced at her vaguely once or twice, each time conveying to her, in some indefinable manner, the impression that her continued presence in his library was in the nature of a painful surprise to him.

At his feet sat his little girl, her small back turned rather ostentatiously toward her father and his guest. She seemed intensely occupied, and occasionally uttered a gurgle of annoyance or satisfaction over the progress of a mysterious enterprise which held her attention. Other than this there was no sound in the room.

The Frenchwoman, who was not without a sense of humor, felt it stirring in her now, and became cruelly conscious of a youthful desire to giggle. It was quite evident that the famous professor, as noted for his absent-mindedness as for his erudition and the number and authority of his scientific works, had wholly forgotten why she was there. Her lips twitched as she realized this and pictured to herself the amusement of her friends if they could look in on the restful tableau she and her host presented. These friends had been a unit in their warnings against her acceptance of the situation Professor Seymour had offered her; recalling their dark predictions now, she found her respect for their judgment increasing.

An unusually loud exclamation from the child finally attracted the professor's attention. He glanced vaguely at her, then at his visitor, and the light of a sudden recollection flashed in his near-sighted eyes. His relief was so great and so artlessly obvious that Mademoiselle Verrier smiled upon him irresistibly—an attention he received with mild wonder.

"Before entering upon your new duties, mademoiselle," he began, in his precise and formal tones, "I desire to explain to you that I am endeavoring to train my daughter along purely scientific and rational lines. I may add candidly that thus far I have encountered—er—surprising difficulties. There is in her, I observe, a peculiar restlessness,—a physical activity that seems quite abnormal. I have not noted it in others. However, she is still very young. In fact, she has not yet reached the fifth anniversary of her birth. I venture therefore to hope that as her mind matures and she becomes able to lend me more intelligent cooperation— Dear, dear, what is she doing now?"

He stopped and gazed helplessly over his glasses at the deeply engrossed child. In one hand she held a mucilage-bottle and in the other the end of a small Shiraz rug, on which she poured the sticky fluid quickly and with lavish generosity. Then, before the startled observers could interfere, she rolled the rug into a compact wad, and sat back to look upon her work. Her plump body was quivering with interest and pleasurable excitement, and in her brown eyes blazed the light of scientific research. The scholarly face of the professor flushed as he took in the situation. He rose without a word, removed the bottle from her clinging hand, pushed the rug to one side, and resumed his seat, lifting her into his lap with an accustomed ease that surprised the one observer.

"It is my habit, mademoiselle," he explained, turning to the governess, the flush still lingering on his thin cheeks, "when any such occurrence as this takes place—and I regret to confess they are all too frequent—to secure first an explanation from my daughter of her reasons for her act, and then to explain to her as logically as possible wherein she has erred."

He sighed deeply as he turned to the child, hut his tone when he spoke to her was very gentle. "Hildegarde," he asked, "by what mental process did you reach the conclusion that this extraordinary act was justifiable?"

Hildegarde leaned her brown curls comfortably against his narrow chest, and opened her pink mouth in a large and deeply satisfying yawn. Her eyes were the color of her curls, and her complexion was much the same shade. Against these rich tones her little white teeth now gleamed as she smiled hospitably at the governess. There were two adorable dimples in her cheeks, and her chin revealed a third. She looked rather tired, but politely interested in the newcomer, and wholly oblivious of the harrowing incident which had just occurred. Her father's question, if indeed she understood anything of it, was plainly of no immediate importance. Nevertheless, she finally answered it in the casual tone of one who begins a pleasant chat.

"Made yelly woll," she remarked.

The professor reflected deeply for a moment. Then his face brightened.

"Ah," he exclaimed, almost briskly, turning to Mademoiselle Verrier, "she says she was making a jelly roll. I understand. We had such a—er—preparation for luncheon to-day, and I recall that Hildegarde was quite impressed at the time by its adhesive properties and the fact that it unrolled as she ate it."

He sank back with an air of relief and stroked Hildegarde's curls unwittingly, his eyes turning anxiously toward the notes on his desk. The episode seemed ended. Mademoiselle Verrier moved restlessly in her chair. Over her settled the chill conviction that the vista opened by this new position was not a restful one. Evidently the half had not been told her; though, as she mentally reviewed the incidents of the past few days, they seemed full of recitals of the eccentricities of Professor Seymour and the phenomena connected with his purposeful training of his motherless child. Her movement attracted his attention, and once more he summoned memory and duty sternly to their posts. A glance at the rug gave him his cue, and he was about to speak, when Hildegarde anticipated him. She was getting sleepy and wanted the crisis over, whatever it was.

"Bidget said, 'Go 'way; can't make yelly woll,’" she murmured, drowsily.

"The cook said, 'Go away; you can't make a jelly roll,’" interpreted her parent, with pathetic loyalty. "So, finding no encouragement in the kitchen, you sought such substitutes as presented themselves. That seems quite logical."

He turned to the governess, as if challenging any flaw in the defence.

"I must admit, in justice," he remarked, thoughtfully, "that she showed a certain wisdom in her selection. Indeed," he added, conscientiously giving his entire mind to the matter, "from what I recall of the jelly roll we ate, I fancy Hildegarde's might not suffer by a comparison. Eliminating the question of size, there is really a remarkable resemblance." He spoke with perfect seriousness, and the Frenchwoman, who had looked up in the buoyant expectation of a joke, subsided again into deep gloom. His reassuring reflections, while they deeply impressed her, failed to reach the ear of Hildegarde, who had dropped off into a restful slumber. He looked down on her, and, as he studied her features, the lines of his cold face relaxed a little.

"I trust, my dear Mademoiselle Verrier," he added, simply, "that this slight episode will not discourage you, nor darken the prospect of your future relations with my daughter. She has days of good behavior, I assure you, and I think I may claim, without undue parental pride, that she is an attractive child. But her environment is peculiar, and my theories as to her training are, I admit, somewhat unusual. When her mother passed from us, Hildegarde was six weeks old. I decided then that as we two were to be dependent upon each other for companionship and—er—happiness, I would train her according to my conception of what is fitting in a woman. To the best of my poor ability I have conscientiously done so.

"My rules are few and simple, but imperative. I must beg that in your association with my daughter you will follow them with the utmost scrupulousness. I give her a large personal liberty, but I am exceedingly determined on several points that seem to me of importance. She must never, in any circumstances, hear or be addressed in so-called 'baby-talk.' I wish her to hear pure English and pure French and to use them naturally. Her pronunciation still leaves much to be desired, as you have doubtless observed. She has great trouble with r and j, but we will at least refrain from increasing her difficulties by addressing her in the extraordinary gibberish most mothers affect. Moreover, she must be spared the myths of childhood—the fairy-tales, the goblins, the Santa Claus and reindeer fables. Nor must reference be made in her hearing to the various traditions of religion. She is not aware that there is fear or falsehood in the world. The time will come when I will no longer be able to spare her this knowledge, but at least we can do so now. She must not play with other children, as their minds and conversation are full of trivialities. There must be no corporal punishment. When she does wrong, that wrong-doing must be explained to her, and her moral sense must be developed, so that she will condemn and correct her aberrations."

He smiled stiffly on the governess as he ended—a well-meaning smile which did not materially lighten the burden of responsibility that seemed to be settling upon her at his words. She felt, too, a natural apprehension, the expression of which rushed impetuously to her lips.

"It is—of an interest, yes, Professor Seymour," she said, slowly. "But I find myself alarmed—a little. It is unusual, such a training; is it not so? And I have great fear that I may not— quite understand."

Professor Seymour looked alarmed himself at this.

"I beg that you will not indulge in such doubts," he said, hastily. "My friends assure me that you are in every way admirably qualified for the post. I have already devoted much more time than I can spare to this matter of a governess, and if—" His eyes turned again to his desk and lingered yearningly on the papers there.

Mademoiselle Verrier rose with a sigh. "If you wish, we will at least try it," she said, without enthusiasm. "My boxes they are here. I will do the best I can."

The professor's face expressed a quiet gratification, as he too rose, adjusting his plump little burden against his shoulder.

"Thank you," he said. "I will carry Hildegarde to her nursery. While she is asleep you may wish to unpack and look at your new surroundings. Will you come with us?"

He crossed the room as he spoke, and as she followed him the governess made a mental note of his age and appearance. He was nearly fifty, she decided. She observed dispassionately his gray hair, the stoop of his thin shoulders, the carelessness of his attire, and the ascetic cast of his features. With more approval, she noticed the care with which he bore the sleeping child. Nevertheless, there was little of the paternal in him, she reflected. He was doing his duty as he conceived it; but it seemed plain that in his daughter's present undeveloped state she interested him much less than the scientific experiments that filled his life. It was quite evident that for days at a time he wholly forgot both Hildegarde and his theories concerning her education. Another characteristic seemed equally evident—a certain dogged resolution that was a strange element in his gentle nature. It would not be easy to change his theories on any subject he had deeply at heart.

The nursery was a large, light, and pleasant room, whose two great windows looked out upon a lake, wooded to its edge. Here, at least, there was no evidence of austere training, or of a lack of the normal interests of childhood. A long procession of brilliantly colored animals stood motionless against the wall, apparently awaiting but the word to begin their march into the great barn in a distant corner. Colored balls and blocks of every description lay on the polished floor, with numerous pictures and nature- books. Later, Mademoiselle Verrier learned how carefully these books had been selected and how wholly they were in accord with the professor's ideas, but to-day she failed to realize this, and abandoned herself joyfully to the child-like atmosphere of the place.

As the days passed they brought the reassuring discovery that however much her sympathetic elders might suffer over her lonely lot, the contemplation of her state brought no grief to the breast of Hildegarde. She was an exceedingly normal child, though "of an activity," as Mademoiselle Verrier confided to the cook, and this activity took startling forms.

Whatever life might be in the Seymour household, it was not dull. To follow Hildegarde about was in itself an exciting occupation, and constant vigilance was required to prevent her from leaving a long train of devastation in her wake. She was never still except when she was in bed. She imitated everything she saw. Few things were forbidden her, and her intrepid spirit stopped at nothing that suggested novelty or danger. Her curiosity was insatiable, and her originality in the matter of experiments could by no chance have been inherited from less distinguished ancestry than her own. Moreover, she dragged with her into the perils she invited hapless beings too young and weak to resist the temptations she spread before them. Virtuous children in the neighborhood fled from their homes and cast off their parents, so to speak, for the sake of an adventure with Hildegarde. Those who returned told their friends wonderful tales of their experience, with the result that the hedge around the Seymour grounds usually bore a frieze of children's heads looking yearningly into the forbidden paradise.

Hildegarde was not allowed to play with other children. Other parents naturally met this command with equally imperative commands to their own. The result was inevitable. Strange holes existed at points of the hedge, at strategical distance from the Seymour house, and small boys and girls, crawling humbly on their stomachs, came and went. Hildegarde received them all with hospitable rapture, and in six months had inoculated every infant in the neighborhood with the germs of her abnormal capacity for mischief. It was Hildegarde and the model child of the region, little Mabel Harlowe, who painted their small bodies bright green and yellow, and called on all the neighbors with no other covering. It was Hildegarde and Johnnie Garside, a youth of great promise, who buried Josie Reed, "to learn a funeral," as they subsequently explained to Professor Seymour. On the black list of those who dropped Archie Beveridge into the cistern to see if he could "whim like wittle ducks" (and incidentally learned that he could not), the name of Hildegarde "led all the rest." After each of these and various other exploits, Professor Seymour talked earnestly with his daughter. It was, so far as it went, an uplifting and inspiring discourse, but subject to interruptions. The attention of the professor wandered after five minutes or so, and Hildegarde invariably went to sleep. She plainly regarded her father's lap as a comfortable road-house on the way to dreamland. Thus Mademoiselle Verrier, who in the beginning had appealed to parental authority with something like confidence, grew accustomed to the picture that usually met her eyes after these parental sessions were ended. In her father's arms Hildegarde slept the innocent sleep of childhood, and on her curly head rested a book, over which the professor pored with his near-sighted eyes close to its pages. Under these conditions there seemed nothing for a discouraged nursery governess to do but put the child to bed and make yearning appeals to heaven.

"I really have reasoned with her most seriously, mademoiselle," the professor said, apologetically, on one of these occasions, "but I fear I have not the power to interest her. I begin to think we may find it necessary to put her on a leash, or something of that kind!" He hesitated, then glanced at the Frenchwoman with an unusual diffidence of expression.

"Am I wrong," he asked, slowly, "in imagining that, notwithstanding these exploits, she is daily becoming more interesting, more worthy of study and attention, more—er—lovable?"

The white teeth of the governess flashed in her characteristic smile.

"But no, Professor," she replied, quickly. "She has great charm. She has also many qualities—of a beauty! She cries not, she sulks not, she tells the truth, she is generous—she would give all away, everything. But—pardon—if I might suggest, it is that she openly have the playmates, the little boys and girls who creep under the hedges now. Also that she have the childish stories, the fairies, all the interests of children, and the normal life of the child. And also, Professor, pardon again, that she have—perhaps—occasionally—the so little spanking which is so good a thing!"

The thin lips of the professor set in a straight line.

"I cannot agree with you, mademoiselle," he said, stiffly. "I am opposed to corporal punishment, however mild. I disapprove of it on principle. As to playmates, she is better alone. It is when she disobeys us and seeks other children that trouble invariably follows. We have had mournful demonstration of that to-day."

The governess dropped her eyes. She knew what that narrow line of the lips meant. She had seen it too often during the past six months not to recognize obstinacy it noted. In matters save this of his special hobby Professor Seymour was gentle and easily moved. Here—he apparently stood like a rock, and not even Hildegarde's small local explosions could shake his firm convictions concerning her. Again and again the governess had seen him ruthlessly demolish some charming bit of lore the child had learned from her small friends. She herself had dried Hildegarde's tears when Johnnie Garside had been shown up as wholly unreliable on the subject of fairies. She had sympathized with Hildegarde's disappointment in not finding a mermaid in the garden fountain, as Johnnie had promised, and she had experienced a lively sense of understanding when the little girl had lain down on the garden walk and fiercely kicked out her revolt against her father's relentless presentation of cold facts concerning brownies. For it was inevitable that Hildegarde Seymour, being the one child in the neighborhood who was not permitted a knowledge of fairy lore, should also be the one child who had it most exhaustively supplied to her. With a wondering awe and a stimulating sense of crime the children brought her all they gleaned. And she in turn took it to her father with an optimism and a childlike trust that his coldly recurrent explanations could not quite kill. Still, they made a shadow—the only one on the child's life,—and this shadow was growing deeper. It seemed, more than any other thing, to shut Hildegarde away from her little friends.

These and many other thoughts passed through Mademoiselle Verrier's mind as she stood looking at the father and daughter one cold December evening. They sat in a great chair before the open fire, whose lights, playing on their faces, brought out the strange unlikeness of the two. As twilight came on, the professor had dropped his book, and was leaning back with a tired expression on his prematurely aged face. He was deep in thought. He had already forgotten the little girl who was dozing in his arms. The governess summoned all her courage for a final appeal.

"Once more, Professor, pardon," she said, quietly. "It is necessary that I speak; the time has come. It is worse, always worse, each day. The child has a most beautiful nature; it is becoming ruined. Her life it is not natural. She has no playmates, except by stealth; she does what pleases her. You correct her—and she goes to sleep. She does not hear. What can be the end? But one thing—a spoiled child, a most beautiful nature spoiled, all spoiled. It grieves my heart. I cannot look on and say nothing. Now I have said—what I must. If it is necessary, I can then go away. But before I go I must say frankly, Professor, you do not understand a little child. Many wise men have not that knowledge. A child should lead a child's life—not the life of a grown person."

Her brilliant eyes filled suddenly. She rose abruptly and left the room, while a startled gentleman rubbed his eyes before the fire. He sat very still for a long time. Hildegarde awoke and began to talk to him, but at first he did not hear her. His thoughts were busy. "You do not understand a little child." No one had ever said so before, but somehow as the words fell on his ears they had carried with them a sudden cold conviction of their truth. Was it possible, despite his convictions, that his ideas were all wrong? The doubt was a very slight one as yet, just the suggestion of a cloud over the sky of his perfect confidence, but he felt a chill at its approach.

Hildegarde stopped talking and looked up at him with deep reproach.

"You don't hear me, favver," she said, impatiently. "You don't ever hear me. I'm talking, I am, 'bout all the fings Georgie said. He said God made me. An' God gived me you and this house, Georgie said, an' my books an' all my fings. He gived me everyfing, Georgie said,—every—single—fing. An' I felt dreffle, 'cos mademoiselle says always fank folks for fings, an' I never fanked God for anyfing!"

The professor smiled, absently at first, then with a queer catch in his breath. It seemed strange that this, which he had known must surely come sometime, should come to-day of all days, so close on the heels of the sudden arraignment which had just been hurled at him. How strangely and, from the Christian standpoint, how well the baby had put it. "I never fanked God for anyfing." There was deep reproach in the words—to others than Hildegarde.

"She must be told none of the traditions of religion."

He recalled this caution he had given to mademoiselle and the servants. It had not occurred to him that other children would discuss religion with his little girl, yet he might have known they would, had he but thought. He would see how far matters had gone.

"What more did Georgie say?" he asked, gently.

Hildegarde sat up in his lap with sudden interest.

"Why, I been telling you, favver. All 'bout Cwistmus. He was born then, God was, in a stable. So now folks are glad, and evewybody gets pwesents. Santa Claus bwings 'em—the pwesents, you know. An' he comes down the chimney wif a big sleigh, an' he dwives lots and lots of deers in the sleigh. An' evewybody gets fings in 'tockings. We hang them up, you know. It's just booful. I never heerd such nice 'tories. Georgie told me. He came frough the hedge. He bwought his picture-books. Santa Claus was in them. Georgie said I must hang my 'tockings up, bofe. All the children will hang theirs up. Then Santa Claus will fill them. Please say he will, favver."

She looked up at him, her brown eyes shining, her little face alight with interest. He never had seen her more animated, more childishly happy. He hesitated, and as she saw the expression on his face her own changed. Her brown eyes filled with tears. She clung to him, almost in terror.

"It ain't twue?" she whispered. "All just a 'tory? like fairies? Oh, favver, it is twue. It is twue! Georgie says it surely is. Some fings have to be twue."

She began to cry—a most unusual thing for Hildegarde to do. Apparently the many disappointments of a short life had at last destroyed even her optimism. Professor Seymour turned rather pale. His scientific friends had warned him that some such time would come, and here it was, with a vengeance! Somehow the usual arguments did not spring to his lips, the usual sense of keen disapproval of traditions did not fill his heart. He wondered why. The tradition of Christmas was an especially beautiful one, with its Christ-child—

"Some fings have to be true." Strange wisdom that for a little child. The professor bowed his head over her brown curls, while many thoughts came to him.

He reflected, whimsically, that he and his little girl stood at cross-ways in life. Two roads stretched out before him. Along one, a rather bleak and dreary way for a small girl, he might lead her. Down the other she could go with happy children, as happy as they. Why should not both roads lead to the same destination? The mere question implied a great change in the professor's mental attitude. His daughter was to be an unusual woman. Well, why not? That did not necessarily mean that she must also be an unnatural child, missing joys that later years could never make up to her. He thought of her mother, and asked himself for the first time whether the dead Hildegarde would approve of what he was doing with the living one. An unaccustomed lump formed in his throat. For once in his life he was giving his whole mind, without bias, to the problems Hildegarde suggested. He saw that he had made mistakes, but he saw, too, that it was not too late to correct them.

Hildegarde beat on his chest with her small hands.

"Is Cwistmus really coming?" she urged. "An' will Santa Claus come down the chimney an' put tings in my 'tockings?"

"Yes," he said, benignly. "Christmas will be here next week. And—er—when it comes I think you may expect Santa Claus."

"With the deers—eight deers?"

"Oh yes; eight deer; possibly twelve," added the professor, in abandoned recklessness.

Hildegarde settled back in his arms with a long sigh of utter happiness. She did not realize that a battle had been fought and won, but she was conscious of something new and singularly congenial in the atmosphere.

"I was 'fwaid it might be mistakes, like fairies," she murmured, happily. "Now tell me dezackly how Santa Claus looks."

Mademoiselle Verrier, reentering the library at that moment, heard the question and the answer. The famous scientist, realizing his limitations, was shamelessly stealing from an immortal authority, while Hildegarde solemnly repeated the words after him:

quoted the professor, slowly, but with gratifying conviction.

"Er—I'm afraid I've forgotten the rest, Hildegarde. It's a little matter of some thirty years since I looked up the scientific records of this matter."

Mademoiselle Verrier, her black eyes bulging, sank weakly into a chair by the door. It uttered a telltale squeak as it received her plump little figure, and Professor Seymour turned quickly at the sound. He flushed as he saw her. Then he spoke up manfully.

"After considerable reflection, mademoiselle," he said, "due in part to your words, but largely to an extended conversation with which my daughter has favored me, I have decided to change our system with her. We will try the usual child routine for six months. This being the Yule-tide, we are beginning—er—with Santa Claus and Christmas. Also with the story of the Christ-child, which—er—I am willing you should read to her."

He watched the illumination of her expressive face, and his eyes twinkled.

"It is possible," he added, kindly, "that I may even get round in future to the 'so little spanking' you intelligently suggest."

Hildegarde smiled dreamily. The word was unpleasant, and associated in her mind with vital crises in the lives of her small friends. But it could have no personal association. Besides, at the worst there was Santa Claus!

"Tell me 'gain dezackly how he looks," she commanded, with unfaltering interest. And the greatest of America's scientific authorities meekly repeated his halting description.