# The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 22/Professor Morgan's Romance

Illustrated by Hal Ludlow.
Layout 4
Professor Morgan's Romance.
By Kate Lee.
ROFESSOR MORGAN was an antiquarian and archæologist. He loved things that were old and things that had been long dead, and passed all his days among bones and stones and ponderous books. Nothing fresh and living played any part in his life, and he persistently withdrew himself from intercourse with his fellows. His prematurely bald head, his large bumpy forehead, and the studious stoop of his shoulders made him appear much older than he really was, and superficial observers imagined him to be as hard and as incapable of emotion as one of his own fossils. It was a rare thing for anyone to get a look from the grey eyes half hidden under the prominent brows. To those who by chance did obtain a full, direct glance from them, and who had the wit to read them aright, they were a revelation of the man. They were eyes that spoke, and the intensity of expression concentrated in them gave the lie to his otherwise emotionless aspect. The Professor was, in fact, no fossil. His heart could beat warm and quick, and a romance lay hidden under his outer husk of hardness and reserve.
"An isolated house and an isolated life."
Ten years ago Hugh Morgan, solitary, unknown, embittered in spirit and broken of heart, had come from abroad and taken up his residence in a lonely house fronting the the outskirts of a Welsh sea-coast village. It seemed an abode as congenial as could possibly be found. The neighbourhood for many miles round abounded in antiquarian remains, and the house itself had looked out on the Atlantic for three centuries or more. An isolated house and an isolated life. A house with a story to tell could it but speak, a human life with a hidden untold past. Those were the parallels Hugh Morgan drew between himself and his chosen home, feeling a dreary sort of kinship with it, and half imagining sometimes that it possessed a human soul, a soul that was as sad in its loneliness as he in his. Here year after year he lived in solitude, devoted apparently to science alone, the man to all outward appearances merged in the antiquarian. His tall figure, surmounted by a broad-brimmed hat drawn low over his capacious brow, became well known to all the inhabitants of the village and the neighbourhood around. Now and then it would be missed for six months or more at a time, when "The Professor," as he came to be ​called, long before the title was his in reality, had found occasion to return abroad for scientific purposes. But, as a rule, it was to be met with every day, either pacing thoughtfully beside the wide sea, or passing rapidly across the green waste behind the straggling village, on the way to the mountains beyond.
The years went by. Professor Morgan became a shining light in the world of archæological science; but each year as it passed seemed to bind him down more and more irrevocably to solitude of heart. The shunning of all companionship, which at first had been but the instinct of a wounded and sensitive spirit, became at length a fixed habit, which he was too shy and reserved to break through. Each year increased the stoop of the Professor's shoulders, the baldness of his head, and the terrific development of his forehead. Each year the sad, shy eyes grew sadder and shyer, and were more and more rarely lifted to meet the undiscerning, unperceptive eyes of others. Little did anyone divine what bitter hours of heart loneliness the misanthropic, unsocial Professor passed in the grim, museum-like study of his lonely house, or what painful thoughts, quite unconnected with barrows and cromlechs and Druid circles, were his daily companions.
One August day the Professor made a journey miles away among the mountains for the purpose of taking fresh observations of a famous cromlech. He had been for two years at work upon a history of cromlechs, and was at this time gathering material for a chapter on the differences between British cromlechs and those of the nations of Germanic descent. The journey took him all the morning, and when he came within sight of the village on his return the afternoon sun was blazing at its hottest. About a mile and a half from the village the road passed through a rough field, in the midst of which, on a slight elevation, stood the ruins of an ancient British house. To any but an antiquary the house had the appearance of being nothing more than a shapeless heap of stones. The Professor had a theory of his own concerning its origin and history; and intended one day writing a magazine article about it by way of recreation from his laborious and exhaustive work on the cromlechs.
"Two tiny figures in black dresses."
As he drew near the ruin to-day he saw coming towards it, from the direction of the village, in the hot glare of the sun, two tiny figures in black dresses and white sunbonnets. Between them they bore a hamper, from which a yellow cat raised its head and gazed around with inquiring eyes. The little faces beneath the sun-bonnets were crimson with heat and haste, and, as ​soon as they reached the foot of the mound on which the ruin stood, the two little travellers put down their burden, and sank beside it, panting with fatigue. The Professor's interest was transferred from the ruin to the charming picture made by the children and their cat. It was long since he had rested his eyes upon objects so young and fresh, and full of life. His fancy was pleasantly struck with the contrast presented by the ancient ruin and the picture of young life to which it formed a background. His heart stirred, and he stepped nearer to the children, who had been so absorbed in the labour of getting along with their burden that they had not perceived the Professor. Now, as they heard his approaching footsteps, they raised blue, startled eyes towards him, and threw protecting arms across their hamper. The Professor felt irresistibly drawn towards them, and, contrary to his usual custom, spoke.
"I won't hurt your cat," he said.
His voice was gentle, and so were his great grey eyes, which were not too shy to meet the innocent blue ones. His broad-brimmed hat was like their father's, the stoop of his shoulders reminded them of their father too, and his manner invited confidence, so the children accepted his friendly overture and took him at his word.
"Hugging the yellow cat."
"Come and look!" cried the younger of the two. She jumped to her feet, and, tripping up to the tall Professor, took his hand.
At the contact of the little soft confiding fingers a thrill shot through the Professor. He looked down at the child, and catching the sweet look of the innocent round face, it was most strangely borne in upon him that that sweetness of expression, that heavenly blue of the eyes, and that soft fluffiness of the brown hair on the fair forehead were not unfamiliar. As the child's hand drew him along he held it with a gentle pressure, and a musing expression crept into his sad eyes.
The elder child lifted the yellow cat from the hamper.
"There!" she said, "those are Amber's dear little kittens. We brought them here to save their lives, because Gwennie said they would all have to be drowned!"
The Professor bent his back, and peered into the hamper, where a family of blind, groping, three days-old kittens lay. The Professor did not find them so charming or so interesting as the children. He looked from the kittens to the child hugging the yellow cat, her blue eyes sparkling under her sun-bonnet. Who could these blue-eyed children be? Why should he fancy that they bore a resemblance to a blue-eyed girl whose life had been closely entwined with his own in the hidden past? The Professor put out his disengaged hand, keeping gentle hold of the clinging child with the other, and absently stroked Amber's yellow head. Amber purred approval, and the children's hearts were completely won. They invited the Professor to sit down on the grass with them, and, inwardly amazed and amused at his own unusual proceedings, the Professor did so. The children babbled about their kittens, and he, listening with a rather abstracted smile, turned his eyes ever from one child to the other.
"What is your name, little one?? he asked abruptly, after a while. The question was addressed to the younger child, who still kept his hand and was leaning confidingly against his arm, looking up with curiosity at the bumps on his broad forehead. She was wondering if they had been caused by a tumble downstairs.
"My name is Phyllis," she said, in answer to his question.
The Professor started as if an electric shock had passed through him, and his face burned suddenly red. From Phyllis's face his eyes travelled to her black crape-trimmed dress.
"Why do you wear this?" he asked, touching it very softly.
"Because mother has gone away from us," said the child, her lips quivering a little. "She has gone to Heaven, and we shall not see her again until we go there too."
​The Professor said no more. He sat silent, looking out with dim eyes across the sunny land. He did not see the fields stretching hot and parched down to the village; he did not see the grand mountains fading away right and left of him into mist. He saw neither the calm sea shimmering out there beyond the village, nor the exquisite sky of turquoise blue smiling like embodied joy above it. He saw a girl named Phyllis whom in the past he had loved with the intensity of a reserved and yet passionate nature. She had seemed to return his love, and to understand him as few understood the sensitive, reticent student. Assured of her love, convinced by many a token that he was the elect out of many suitors, he had left her one year to join an exploration party in Palestine.
"Phyllis."
Thither, after a few months' absence, he was followed by news which turned him outwardly to stone, and made his inner life an agony of bitterness and grief. The news was conveyed in a cutting from the London Times, sent to him anonymously. It contained the announcement of Phyllis Wynne's marriage with a Colonel Llewellyn, who had at one time appeared to be a favoured rival for her love, but who had long since ceased to press his suit. A letter in Phyllis's handwriting followed the announcement, but Hugh Morgan tore it to atoms, unread. A second and a third letter shared the same fate. Then the letters ceased. Hugh Morgan remained abroad for a year or two, and on his return buried himself in the obscure corner of Wales in which he had now lived for ten years.
The unmistakable likeness in the faces of these two children, and the fact of one of them bearing the name of his faithless love, set both memory and imagination at work in the mind of the Professor. These were without doubt Phyllis's children. And Phyllis was dead! It was a strange chance that had brought him and Phyllis's children together; strange and sad that from the lips of Phyllis's child he should hear of Phyllis's death.
So out there in the August sunshine, at the foot of the old ruin, the Professor read, as he thought, the last page of the romance of his life. But he was mistaken. There was yet another page to be turned.
Unnoticed by the dreaming Professor or by the children, who, seeing their companion's abstraction, had quietly busied themselves plucking the yellow poppies which grew among the grass, there had come along the road from the village a lady in a black dress. She was close upon them before the children perceived her. With outstretched arms and affectionate outcries they flew to meet her. She caught them to her, and bending down kissed the little uplifted faces with great tenderness.
"My little Kitty and Phyllie!" she cried, "how you have frightened us! Why did you leave Gwennie? Why did you come all this distance alone?"
The Professor, hearing the voice, rose suddenly to his feet. How strangely he was haunted to-day! Surely that was the voice of Phyllis Wynne! And yet Phyllis was dead! His wondering, startled eyes devoured the face of the new-comer, and he held his breath. He saw a woman past her first youth, a woman with blue, sweet eyes, and with brown hair touched too early with grey. In spite of the difference the years had made, in spite of the paleness which had taken the place of the peachbloom of old, and the smoothness of the hair which once had curled so softly about the brow, Hugh Morgan could not but recognise her. This was certainly Phyllis. And yet the children had said she was dead!
"Phyllis!" he cried aloud, unable to contain himself, and his voice broke as he spoke the name which had not passed his lips for more than ten years.
At the sound of that name, spoken by that voice, the lady started as the Professor had ​started when the child Phyllie had pronounced it, and a crimson tide of colour rushed over her pale face. She loosened the clinging arms of the children, and, taking a step towards the Professor, stood with strained eyes staring at him.
"The professor rose suddenly."
"Hugh!" she cried.
Bluntly and confusedly he stammered: "But the child said you were dead!"
The immobility of his face was all broken up with the strength of the conflicting emotions that possessed him, his grey eyes glowed under the prominent brows, and his strong hands trembled. Phyllis was scarcely less moved herself, but, woman-like, seeing his excessive and almost over-mastering agitation, she came to the rescue by controlling herself into calmness of voice and manner.
"The children's mother is dead," she said, gently.
"They are not your children?" said the Professor, passing a hand over his brow, as if to sweep away the mist of bewilderment that obscured his understanding.
"They are my brother's children," said Phyllis Wynne. "He has just been appointed minister at a Presbyterian church at C———." She named a large town some miles distant. "I have taken care of the children since their mother died a few months ago, and we have come here for a holiday."
"And you—you are widowed, then?" blundered on the Professor.
Phyllis Wynne looked at him strangely.
"I have never been married," she said, simply, and the crimson colour again dyed her delicate face.
The Professor stared at her a moment in horrified amazement, scarcely able to seize the import of her words. Then he broke out in a passionate way, his voice loud and stern:—
"Then what fiend sent me that false notice of your marriage—your marriage with Colonel Llewellyn?"
"Oh, Hugh! Hugh!" cried Phyllis Wynne swiftly, her voice sharp with pain. Through her quick woman's mind there had flashed the explanation of all that had been so incomprehensible, the realization of all that Hugh as well as she herself had suffered, and with it a contrasting vision of what might have been. "Oh, Hugh! What an awful mistake! My cousin of the same name, Phyllis Wynne, married Colonel Llewellyn!"
"My God!" cried the Professor, "what a fool I was! what a fool!"
A dead silence fell between them. No detailed explanation was necessary just then. Each understood that either through the mistake of some officious meddler, or through the deliberate villainy of some rival of Hugh Morgan's, they had been kept apart through the best years of life, each embittered by the thought of the other's faithlessness. They stood side by side, looking gravely out at the gleaming sea. Their hearts were beating with the same momentous thought, but neither yet dared to give expression to it. The children, gathering their yellow poppies and twining them about their hamper, looked up curiously now and again at their aunt and their new friend, and wondered why their faces were so serious and yet so excited, and why, after talking so earnestly, they had now fallen into complete silence.
The silence could not long be maintained unbroken. It grew too pregnant with strong, struggling emotion. The Professor suddenly turned to the woman by his side.
"Have we met again too late, Phyllis?" he cried. "Is it too late?"
As the question passed his lips, his face grew very white, and his grey eyes filled with an intense and painful eagerness. Phyllis kept him in no suspense. Her answer came at once, in a broken cry of love.
"Oh, Hugh! it is not too late!—it could never have been too late!" And, her blue ​eyes shining through tears, she stretched out her hands to him.
The wondering children, pausing in their work, saw their Aunt Phyllis gathered to their new friend's heart. She was held there closely, while soft whispered words passed from lip to lip, and a radiance of unspeakable happiness dawned over both faces. The years of suffering and separation seemed compensated for in that one moment of exquisite and perfect joy.
The stones of the old ruin blazing in the August sunshine gazed at the Professor in amazed reproach. But he paid no heed. The archæologist was lost in the lover.