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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 55297
   :PG.Title: Hazelhurst
   :PG.Released: 2017-08-07
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Enid Leigh Hunt
   :DC.Title: Hazelhurst
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1908
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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HAZELHURST
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   .. _`GERALD CARVED THE MUTTON, TEDDIE SERVED THE VEGETABLES (*p.* 248)`:

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      :alt: GERALD CARVED THE MUTTON, TEDDIE SERVED THE VEGETABLES (*p.* 248)

      GERALD CARVED THE MUTTON, TEDDIE SERVED THE VEGETABLES (*p.* `248`_)

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      HAZELHURST

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      BY

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      ENID LEIGH HUNT

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      (MRS. DEREK EDWARD THORNTON)

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      AUTHOR OF
      "THE ADVENT OF ARTHUR"

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      LONDON
      SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON AND CO., LTD.
      1908

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      MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
      PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON

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   HAZELHURST

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   PROLOGUE

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The present generation of the Le Mesuriers were
possessed of powerful lungs, the same being a
heritage.

It is true that many of the great vaulted rooms
and galleries of Hazelhurst, which had rung to the
clear tones of the Le Mesurier voice for some three
or four hundred years, were now so empty of furniture,
so devoid of thick hangings and tapestries—the
very floors being stripped bare of the covering natural
to well-appointed floors—so denuded, in short, of
everything wherein, and behind which, the rich quality
of the Le Mesurier voice might lurk and muffle itself,
to ring on thinned while suffering no loss of compass,
that this might, in some measure, make explanation
of the seemingly exceptional strength of their vocal
capacity; nay, further, might exonerate them from all
charge of exceptionality, but for the fact that as
children the Le Mesuriers had shouted with precisely
the same lusty vigour and resonance from the lap of
luxury.  For it was but seven years since that the
feet of the five Le Mesurier boys, with the pair
belonging to the one Le Mesurier girl, had stridden
or trotted, according to their respective length of limb,
over deep-piled carpets, from one magnificently
furnished apartment to another.  They had been seated
in the great oak-panelled dining-room, at a table
groaning under its weight of massive silver, to feast
upon the daintiest fat of the land, tended by noiseless
human machines in the Le Mesurier livery.  So that
if, when sitting deep and well covered in the lap
of luxury, the Le Mesurier voice was acknowledgedly
sonorous, it is unreasonable to suppose now that it
was only seemingly so, under the condition of
over-much empty space wherein to resound.  Besides, if
further proof be needed: five-and-twenty years ago,
when the first of the five Le Mesurier boys was
born, Doctor Dash, a most eminent authority from
London, had remarked upon the voice, and the nurses
had declared they had never heard anything like it.  It
was further agreed to be a very beautiful voice when
not raised in grief; even then its beauty remained for
the mother; and each new Le Mesurier baby commanded
a most interested and attentive audience, the
more flattering in their attendance that they came in
the full cognisance that no gracious words were to be
expected, but solely in the keenness of their desire
to learn whether or not the newcomer was possessed
of the widely appreciated and justly valued constituent
of the Le Mesurier personality.

The sixth and last baby, a girl, in no wise shamed
her family nor disappointed those who attended her
first summons by any deterioration in lungs.  The
voice, in its infancy certainly, like the rest of her,
was undeniably present, clear, authoritative, cultured,
albeit softer-toned than her brothers', as was seemly
in a girl.

This last-born Le Mesurier, last-born at least in
the direct descent, if not of the generation, while
being neither a disappointment nor a disgrace, was
an immense surprise.  No guard left the side of the
white satin-hung cradle whilst she slept, nor the
little silver tub wherein she splashed, nor the soft
white carpet spread over a portion of the nursery
floor whereon she took her exercise, on her back,
kicking, ever and anon deeming it advisable to
expand the famous lungs in cooings and trills and, on
occasion, exerting more lustiness in other sounds,
pertaining to babyhood.  I repeat, no guard left
her until relieved by one equally vigilant.  But
for the voice, she would, despite this fact, have created
serious doubts in the minds of the respective members
of her family, and all connected with it, as to whether
some changeling was not usurping the cradle, the tub,
and the exercise ground of the rightful Le Mesurier
girl.

For the child had brown hair and eyes; and the
skin, though exquisitely clear and delicate, was, of
necessity, darker than that which went to constitute
a well-ordered, self-respecting Le Mesurier.

In the first days of her life, therefore, in spite of
the love that encompassed her, the child was held
to be something of an alien.  The pride in the lovely
little creature that overflowed the mother's heart came
rather timidly, rather deprecatingly, from her lips.
None of her boys had presumed to be anything
but fair, the most daring among them attaining
to only light brown hair, and all looked upon the
world with the traditional blue eyes.  The case,
however, was not unprecedented; and when this fact was
ascertained, the family was free to recover its natural
calm and to pursue the even tenor of its way, holding
its head even higher than heretofore.

One day, as Helen Le Mesurier was exhibiting the
little beauty to a host of admiring friends, with a wistful
and slightly apologetic manner, in which attitude she
vainly sought to veil her pride, Hubert, her husband,
was struck with a sudden thought.  Hastily quitting
the room, unnoticed, he sped in some excitement to
the picture-gallery, situate in the west wing of the
great house.  Too impatient to brook the delay of
unbarring the heavy shutters, he seized and lighted a
lamp, which he held at arm's length above his head,
as he eagerly and swiftly scanned row upon row of
dead and gone Le Mesuriers portrayed upon the
walls.  Everywhere fair hair, from light brown to gold,
gleamed in the lamplight, straight-featured,
broad-browed, the women dazzlingly fair of skin, the men
square-chinned, and, for the most part, curly-headed—one
and all blue-eyed.

But Hubert passed these by, for some vague memory
had awakened within him.  Surely his father had
once shown him, as a child, the portrait of a dark-eyed
girl, half in pride, half in apology.  If his memory
were not tricking him, such a portrait must be in
existence.  He made his way directly to the more
secluded parts of the room.  His diligence was soon
rewarded, for there, within a corner niche, almost at
his feet, he discovered the object of his search: a small
portrait of a lovely little girl, scarcely above miniature
size, surrounded by an oak frame.  Her hair, of a
nut-brown, waved and rippled to her waist, and a pair
of wide brown eyes looked out, mischievously, upon the
beholder; the wonderfully clear and delicate skin was
warm of tone.

Setting down the lamp, Hubert, his fingers trembling
with eagerness, unfastened the picture, and, turning
it, read upon the back: "Hazel Le Mesurier, aged five
years, 1671."

Thus it was that the Le Mesurier girl came to be
named Hazel.

At five years of age a painting was made of her
head and shoulders, in like pose, on the same sized
canvas as that of her namesake, and, behold, the two
faces, allowing for the dissimilarities of style arising
from the difference of the schools of painting of so
remote a period from those of the present time, were as
like, one to the other, as two—hazelnuts!

When his daughter had attained to her ninth year,
Hubert Le Mesurier fell ill and died, being then in
the forty-fifth year of his age.

The twenty-and-odd years of his majority had been
one hard struggle to redeem the heavily mortgaged
estate inherited from a spendthrift father and
grandfather.  His endeavours ended in failure; he had
speculated deeply for many years, keeping his fortunes,
with few fluctuations, at the same dreary level.  On
his demise came the inevitable crash: the foreclosure
of the mortgage.  Other debts there were; so that,
when Helen and her eldest boy, Guy, of some nineteen
or twenty years, who, having the ordering of these
things, had quieted and pacified even the loudest crying
among their creditors, and were once more enabled
to breathe freely, now that so heavy a burden as debt
was removed from the delicate shoulders of the mother
and the youthful ones of the son—so inapposite a load
for either to bear—they found the great house a very
barrack in its echoing bareness, being, indeed, divested
of many things.

Heavy oak furniture, some dating from Queen Anne's
time, covered in decent palls, was moved away in
vans down the gloomy avenue of great trees, with
funeral gait.  Also much valuable plate and almost
priceless china.

But the mourners who had sustained this loss were
left rejoicing in that the portrait gallery, sacred to
the Le Mesuriers, doubly sacred to Helen as her
husband's dying trust, was left inviolate; and as the
poor thing stood, surrounded by her five sons, in the
huge marble-paved entrance hall, she exclaimed, tears
of very thankfulness coursing down her cheeks:

"Why should we grieve while we have each other?
While together we can protect what my Hubert, what
your father held so dear."

Each Le Mesurier boy, in varied pose of heroic resolve,
protested his loyalty and devotion to his father's
memory, and to the honoured name of ancient lineage
which he bore; and each Le Mesurier boy's heart beat
strong and fast according to the stage of development
in which his inherent pride of race had found expression
and proportionally to the valorous and chivalric feeling
that stirred in the depth of each affectionate Le Mesurier
boy's nature toward his lady mother.

Hazel, with outspread skirts, gravely danced, twirled
and pirouetted with light, quick feet in the background;
but on hearing the tears in her mother's voice, with a
little caressing cry she flew to Helen's side, flung her
arms about her and, looking up into her face, cried:

"Mother, mother, don't forget that you have *me*";
and Helen, as she stroked the curly head, and looked
into the upturned brown eyes, felt warm comfort glow
at her heart, in that nought but death could wrest from
her these six priceless treasures, her children.

The stables and carriage-house were emptied.  Then
came the disbandment of the company of servants.
Many wept, and, refusing the wage due to them, took
sorrowful leave of their mistress and the young masters
whose infancy they had tended.

Two, however, there were who did not weep and who,
on the almost indignantly named plea of having left their
former beloved master and mistress, Helen's parents, for
the express purpose of following the fortunes of Helen
herself, on her marriage with Hubert Le Mesurier, stood
their ground in the most literal sense, by obstinately
declining to go.  These two were Miles the butler and
Martha Doidge, who, kitchenmaid in her early youth,
at thirty—the age of her exodus with Helen—had been
raised step by step till now, at fifty, the good woman
had attained to the dignity of housekeeper at Hazelhurst.

"But my dear, faithful Martha," Mrs. Le Mesurier
expostulated, "you forget: there will be no field for such
services as yours.  Most of the rooms will be closed and
your cupboards will be empty.  And you, Miles, your
duties have been wrested from your hands."

Such arguments were vain.  Martha Doidge
established herself as cook and general factotum,
managing, with the help of two young girls from the
neighbouring hamlet, with great dexterity and order,
the domestic affairs pertaining to the habitable part of
Hazelhurst.

As for Miles, who was nigh upon sixty years, he did
all that a faithful, hardworking servant might, indoors and
out.  Five o'clock in the morning would often find him
gardening assiduously, polishing windows, or engaged in
some such work, attired in a dilapidated old suit, which
he called his "undress"; but nine o'clock would see
him serving the simple breakfast with all the old dignity
and with even added respect, arrayed, as became the
butler of "high family," in all the glory of the
fast-growing-shabby-and-shiny full dress of his vocation.

Almost speechless was Miles with indignation, and
something more, when Helen—deeply concerned for her
old servant, that he should put aside all his own interests
in his devotion to herself and her children—made to him
the proposition that he should seek the position of
butler at Earnscleugh.  She had heard that the young
master was about to return from his sojourning abroad,
to take up his abode permanently in the home of his
fathers; that great preparations were in making, and
that the usual staff of servants was needed in the
completion of these preparations.  As for her own
household, Helen urged, the two young maids could
serve the simple meals that Doidge so daintily prepared;
but in their adverse fortunes they could not expect
to command the services of the best servant, she
verily believed, in the land, nor could she wish to be
instrumental in helping to deter him from his self-advancement.

Thus, by flattering and cajoling, did Helen endeavour
to dissuade the old retainer from continuing in what she
deemed so great a sacrifice; but she had not calculated
on the very real affection that, deep-rooted, had sprung
up in the old man's heart during all the years of his
servitude, and when, his anger cooled, Miles pleaded,
visibly affected, that to go, to turn his back on the
family, would to him be leaving all honour and grateful
love behind; that his only wish was to end his days in
her service, she at length desisted from her efforts to
render the faithful fellow more worldly wise; and
pressing his hand, assured him of the affection and
esteem with which she and her family regarded him; of
how rejoiced they would all be to learn that, despite
their recent losses, they were not to part with their old
retainer; that he, who had been with them so long, was
to be with them yet.

So it was that Helen soothed the poor fellow's
wounded sensibilities, and Miles continued butler at
Hazelhurst.

Various were his ingenuities in that capacity, and
gradually Helen and her children learned to respect the
innocent devices out of regard for the feelings of their
perpetrator.  The sideboard was ever furnished with
decanters of wine, which—seeing that the cellars had
been emptied of all, save the old port deemed
necessary by the physician and friend of the family
for Helen, in the rather delicate state of her
health—might well be looked upon somewhat dubiously and
hastily declined in favour of the clear, crystal water,
a gourd of which Miles was careful to offer with the
wine.  Nor was such refusal made difficult, for Miles
did not press the doubtful beverage on his young
masters, seeming rather to be relieved that it should
be held in disfavour among them, though he religiously
continued, during luncheon and dinner, to carry it round
the table, sometimes under one name, sometimes by
another.

Whether the wine was procured at the village grocery
or whether it was tinted water, as Hazel ingeniously
suggested, remained a mystery to all but Miles himself;
but certain it was that the decanters seldom needed
replenishing, so that no fears were entertained of a
drain upon the household disbursements or the private
pocket of the Le Mesuriers' butler.

Dire was the wrath of Miles should any of the
womenfolk presume to encroach upon his right.  Since
the day of his coming to Hazelhurst—twenty years ago,
to be exact—the young footmen under his supervision
were most deferential to an old retainer upon whom
the family conferred so many honours, and in whom
they reposed so much trust and confidence.  Miles
had enjoyed his power and made the most of it, ordering,
regulating, and drilling his satellites with perfection
of manipulation.  Now, however, that Fortune had
frowned, things would indeed have come to a pretty pass,
to Miles's thinking, had he permitted women to fulfil
the functions pertaining to the table that had hitherto
been performed by men only.  No; the fiat had gone
forth that Miles himself undertook to wait upon the
family at meals; but woe to the maid who failed to
be at hand at the right moment, to bear the required
dish, or to receive the whispered communication.  Woe
also to her, who, lacking nicety of perception in
such matters, or, more blameworthy still, in mere
feminine curiosity, ventured a step into the room, or
stood without in such position as should discover to
those at table the agency by which the butler carried
out his duties with such order and precision.

Whether Helen and her family were supposed to
be in ignorance of the number and sex of their
attendants, or whether matters were ordered thus by the
redoubted Miles, upon the prompting of his own
delicate feeling on the point, remained as zealously
guarded a mystery as the wine.

On one occasion the maid from the hamlet engaged
by Martha Doidge, being new to her duties, after
knocking to attract the butler's attention did most
unwisely and erroneously open the door and advance
three steps into the sacred precincts of the
dining-room, bringing some course for which Miles was not
yet ready: a fact which his stern disregard of her
summons should have made plain to her.

So frightened was the girl when, on turning her
fascinated eyes from the table, they encountered those
of the butler, who seemed to be bearing down upon
her, swift and noiseless, awful in the majesty of his
wrath, that, setting the dish upon the floor, she turned
and fled.  Miles, pausing beside the dish in momentary
hesitation as to which of these barbaric proceedings
he should first give attention, followed in hot pursuit,
closing the door behind him.

Hazel and the boys were convulsed with stifled
laughter, and Helen, herself somewhat discomposed,
could only beg of them to control themselves before
the faithful servant returned to the room.

The girl had evidently not retreated far, judging
by the space of time that Miles was absent, judging
also by the ominous sniffs that fell upon the ears of
the dinner party when the door was reopened.

Miles entered, red of face and somewhat short of
breath; but nothing could surpass his dignity.  He
lifted the dish from the ground, and renewing the
plates with miraculous speed, handed it round with
the utmost composure, to all outward seeming.

The meal over, Miles sought an interview with his
mistress, apologising for any laxity of order that she
might have noticed, assuring her that the like should
not occur again; and that Mrs. Doidge had discharged
the girl for her remissness.  Helen had much ado
to get the sentence of dismissal commuted to a
month's trial.





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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   CHAPTER I

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On a bright day in late June, Hazel, now a tall slip
of a girl of sixteen, was wandering through the
bit of woodland that stretched from the immediate
vicinage of Hazelhurst on its right flank to the boundary
of the land that had been left to the Le Mesuriers when,
seven years since, the greater part of the estate had been
sold.  Tempting offers had been tendered, both for the
ground as it stood, and for the timber grown upon
it; but Mrs. Le Mesurier had remained firm, and her
sons had resolved that no poverty should induce them
to part with this last remaining portion of their heritage.

As to Hazel, the woodland was her kingdom, her
empire.  She loved every inch of its leafy, winding
tracks; she was acquainted with every squirrel and bird
housed within its hospitable shelter; she gloried in each
veteran oak and cherished each tender sapling.

To-day, as she sauntered on, her small brown hands
clasped before her, pensive, her head bent, the soft
brown hair falling like a mantle around her, she seemed
a very wood-nymph in her simple gown—the exact shade
of the gnarled trunks, in which russet tint it was her
mother's fancy to clothe the girl.

Presently, wearied of pursuing the beaten pathways
she turned aside to stroll over a thick, springy carpet
of last year's crumpled leaves, strewn with fir cones,
pine needles, acorns, and acorn cups.  A squirrel ran
by her, paused and looked back, with what seemed to
the girl a roguish twinkling of his bright eyes; then,
with a salute of his bushy tail, was gone.  Birds of sorts,
ceaselessly trilling their sweet notes, hopped to the
lower branches as she passed; presently one or two,
leaving the piping chorus for a space, fluttered to the
ground near her feet and, as she paused, seemed to be
considering her in a conclusive, bright-eyed way, with
heads first on this side, then on that, as if questioning
the cause of her muteness.

And, indeed, Hazel was unlike herself this summer
morning.  It was her wont to greet her subjects graciously
with chirps and chirrups and all manner of sweet wood-notes.
At her soft cooing a ringdove would belike perch
upon her shoulder, when she was minded to have one
confidante!  But her "twee-twee" would create a whirr
among the tree branches, and a very medley of her
feathery vassals would appear on the lowest boughs,
hopping, chirruping in bright-eyed questioning.  In
bright-eyed greed also; for they little doubted that
when their liege lady had done with her clear piping
to that great, greedy, black thrush, who responded
with bows which would have been deferential and
dignified had they only been less choppy, and if he would
only have desisted from shuffling his feet and sidling
restlessly up and down his perch the while performing
them; when she was pleased to stop chirping caressingly
to the robins and sending forth clear wood-note calls to
summon the few pet woodlarks to her presence, the
manchet of bread which usually bulged her pocket
would surely be drawn out and dispensed in crumbs
around her.

But to-day the pocket of the brown gown was suspiciously
and ominously flat, and Hazel held her peace,
as if she feared to render unhappy the pretty winged
creatures by the sad-toned chirps and chirrups which
would surely be all she could contrive this morning if
she endeavoured to be sociable.

Presently the girl came upon a rugged oak-tree.
She paused and looked wistfully up into its branches,
watching the sunlight glinting in and out among the
leaves, marking each delicate shape in relief against its
background of yellow light or blue shadow, each articulation
of the brown branches outlined clean and distinct,
affording delicious peeps of blue sky between.

Hazel, with impulsive motion, threw her arms about
the trunk, and, kissing the rough, sweet-smelling bark,
turned her head and pressed her soft pink cheek against
the rugged surface of this lifelong friend.

"Ah," she said aloud, yearningly, "ah!" and the
brown eyes filled with tears, "I wish I could earn
some money."

However strangely this admission may have sounded
to any winged or bushy-tailed audience that chanced
to be within hearing, they were too polite to allow their
surprise to show itself, either by excited increase of trills
and cooings, or by sudden cessation of all sound.  The
sunlight gleamed in quivering, shimmering shafts, as
before; the topmost tree branches waved slightly
overhead; and the mischievous squirrel, who must have
been within earshot, now discovered himself and, taking
his seat not far from the girl, looked upon her more in
sympathy than in condemnation.

That the remark did sound out of place and somewhat
mercenary is hardly to be denied, coming as it did
from this brown-haired Dryad amid such pacific
surroundings.  For Dryads are not supposed to know
the worth of money, nor to be harassed with such need:
the woods wherein they dwell and have their being
affording them everything of the freshest and fairest that
they can possibly require.  Still the wish expressed was
not so unfitting in its nature as might at first appear;
for this particular wood-nymph had a mother—quite
a peculiarity among Dryads, it is generally understood.
And this mother was less well than usual, causing much
anxiety and distress to her little daughter, who, however
odd it may seem, possessed a very human heart beating
within her breast, an immense capacity for joy and
sorrow, and a great sympathy withal; though, for her,
personal acquaintance with grief was, happily, slight.

Mrs. Le Mesurier had never recovered from the
shocking grief that her husband's death had caused her.
For her children's sake she had mastered herself to some
extent, to all outward seeming becoming once more the
cheerful little mother whom they had always known and
adored: ready in her sympathy with the young life
around her, wise in her counsel and, in her protection,
loving.  But she, and she only, though the family
physician could testify to the results, knew of the bitter
suffering in the hours of dark and quiet, that sapped
her strength and told on her vitality.  Hers was a
nature that could better bear a selfish indulgence of
that suffering, even if it should cast an abnormal
melancholy over her naturally joyous temperament,
than the pent-up emotion which, when the strain
became too great, burst with terrible force over the
poor thing, leaving her so inert and listless that the
armour of bravery, which in sheer habit she would
buckle on with each new day, was sometimes very thin
and worn, affording her but a poor guard against the
assailing sorrow.

Of late her health had fluctuated strangely.  No
sufficient reason accounting for such ebb and flow, the
doctor was fain to lay the charge to the strength-stealing
propensities of an early, warm spring and hot summer.

Hazel had gone daily to the village in person to
select a couple of choice peaches or other dainty
luxury—alas! all too seldom seen now at Hazelhurst, where
once upon a time great baskets of such delicacies were
pressed upon the poor of the neighbourhood.  But
to-day the poor child had made the last disbursement
from her slender store of pocket-money, and was
searching her mind for some suitable means by which
to make replenishment.  Each of her brothers gave
his mite toward the support of the household: why not
she?

Guy, the eldest, through great good fortune and the
exertion of influential friends, had become a private
secretary in a Government office, for which post he
was taken from college, and was now earning a modest
income.  Cecil, the second, was abroad, doing well in
the Indian Civil Service.  Gerald, the third, articled
to a chartered accountant, was hoping to pass his
examination in a couple of years.  Hugh, the fourth,
and Teddie, the fifth Le Mesurier boy, both at the
present time "something in the City," accompanied
their brother Gerald to town each Monday morning,
returning to the family roof-tree for the week-end, so
hungering for the simple delights of their quiet home, and
for the sweet, fresh air of their beloved woods, that from
the train window, as they approached their destination,
each curly head would be thrust forth to catch the
first sight of Hazel, who never failed to be awaiting
their arrival upon the platform, her eager face and glad
eyes an earnest of her welcome; and each famous pair
of lungs would greedily drink in each faintest breeze
wafted to them from the direction of Hazelhurst.

Gerald, of a steady, plodding temperament, gave no
slightest cause for uneasiness, either to his mother or to
the kind patron who had helped the boy to this opening
in life.  But, alas, of Hugh and Teddie otherwise!
Cyril Westmacott, a younger brother of Helen's, had
kept the two boys at school till the age of eighteen, but,
having sons of his own, could not afford a college
education to follow.  Hugh, therefore, for the last two
years, had lived a somewhat desultory life since leaving
school till the present time, when he held a rather vague
position in a London office—a life which greatly
unfitted the boy, never of a studious or persevering
nature, for such steady application as nondescript
appointments in the City render desirable for the
attainment of a more lucrative post.

Teddie, only a few months from school, was equally
restless under restraint and impatient of all monotony.
Unfortunately, monotony constituted, in great part, the
high-stooled City life of the two youngest Le Mesurier
boys.

To-day was Monday, a depressing fact to Hazel, who
accompanied three long-legged and long-faced brothers
to the station, some two miles distant from Hazelhurst,
with mournful regularity in the early morning of that
day, come wet, come shine, after a hearty breakfast at
half-past six, served to the party by Miles, who,
respectful and deeply sympathetic, urged one and all
to keep up their strength for the trying ordeal they
were about to undergo.  Nor were his efforts vain, for
no excitation of mind, not even that of sorrow, to the
best of his knowledge, had ever affected the wonderful
appetites of his young masters.

And now the girl, returned to the quiet house
to find her mother not yet risen, had found its
solitude unbearable, the very echoes that the famous Le
Mesurier voice had awakened within its walls having
died now into quite disproportionate silence, it seemed
to Hazel, who, fleeing to the woods, had given herself
up to sad meditation, in which the wistful desire to earn
money herself held prominent place.

Lying on a bed of soft mosses, she lost herself in
thought, and more than an hour must have passed
when the sound of footsteps fell upon her startled ears.
Raising herself to a distrustful sitting posture, the girl
awaited what should chance, presently descrying the
figure of Miles the butler, evidently in quest of herself,
though at the moment of her discovery she could
perceive him passing among the trees along many and
divergent tracks.

"Miles," she cried, "Miles"; and, springing to her
feet, the girl ran to meet the old servant.  "Is mother
asking for me?" she inquired.

To her surprise, for all answer, Miles, rummaging
in the breast pocket of his coat, produced an
orange-coloured envelope: a telegram addressed to Hazel; and,
placing the missive upon a tiny salver he was carrying,
presented it to his young mistress; then retiring a few
paces, awaited her pleasure.

Truly the two figures presented an odd contrast one
to the other; the girl slim, graceful, upright as the
feathery larch near which she stood, pink-cheeked,
bright-eyed, the embodiment of delicate, supple youth; the
old man, clothed in shabby black, the fresh green around
rendering his poor habiliments more rusty-looking and
threadbare than ever, the baggy knees lending to his
attitude the effect of a curtsey from which he had never
recovered.  Yet the face, though seamed with many
a line, was fresh-coloured and well favoured, possessing
a cheery, bland expression, born of peace and
contentment—heritage of advancing age into which, alas, all
too few come.

Hazel, recovering from her astonishment at finding
herself the recipient of a message of sufficient
importance to necessitate a telegram, with trembling
fingers opened the envelope and read the following
words:

"Been sacked: break news gently to mother: meet
afternoon train, TEDDIE."

"Miles," the girl said tremulously—and as the servant
approached she regarded him in awed solemnity—"to
be sacked is to be discharged, isn't it?"

"Yes, miss," Miles replied, his eyes almost as dilated
as those of his young mistress, "is—is the message
from one of the young gentlemen, miss?  Has one
of them been—er—discharged, miss, if I may make so
free?"

Hazel, flushing red, then pale, read aloud the contents
of the telegram, Miles listening with bated breath;
after which the two regarded one another in silence,
both guiltily conscious that their emotions were not
altogether of such a nature as the occasion seemed
to demand.

True, Hazel did feel consternation in that this darling
of her heart, this same Teddie, who for three long
months had been self-supporting, was now to be
returned to them: for the girl was aware that her idol,
to put into words her own half-sad, half-humorous
thoughts on the subject, was an expensive luxury;
that the slender resources of Hazelhurst were sorely
tried during the redoubted Teddie's visitations.  Her
mind was further exercised as to the cause of his
dismissal, though she guessed it to be, and rightly, largely
owing to the, it must be confessed, somewhat peppery
temper of Teddie.  She was distressed, on these several
accounts, for the sake of her mother, from whom it was
essentially necessary to keep all matters of a character
likely to prove agitating or disturbing.  So that it was
with feelings very mixed, though a delicious exultation
predominated, that Hazel made her way to the house
to acquaint her mother, using what gentle tact she might,
with the exciting intelligence.  Miles followed.  In his
way he was equally rejoiced with his little lady, for the
quietude of Hazelhurst from Monday at 7 a.m. till
Saturday at 4 p.m. was hardly more to his taste than
to hers.

On the threshold Hazel paused and, turning, asked
Miles to bring her a glass of port and biscuits, it being
close upon the customary hour at which her mother
partook of that refreshment.

On entering her mother's room, Hazel found herself
in the moment of time for the performance of the duties
of tirewoman; for Helen, seated before the mirror, brush
in hand, was engaged in smoothing her hair, somewhat
surprised at her little daughter's tardiness to be at this,
her dearly loved, self-imposed task.  Setting the wine
upon a side-table, Hazel crossed the spacious room, and,
kneeling beside her mother's chair, placed her arms
about her and kissed her.

"Good morning to you, sweet my mother," she said,
gaily, looking lovingly upon the delicate face that was
so dear to her.  "I hope I see you well and that you
have only just begun to brush your hair.  You were not
up when I came home this morning, and I have got
late somehow.  I was in the wood, where I do believe,"
the girl added, half laughing, "that time is not."

With that she rose to her feet and, taking the brush
from the table, where her mother had laid it—the better
to return her daughter's caress—with gentle hand
proceeded to smooth the masses of fair hair that rippled
and waved so like her own; presently, with deft fingers,
skilfully twisting and coiling it into a great knot behind
the shapely head.  Then assisting her mother to exchange
her dressing-gown for a simple morning-gown of
some soft, black material—Helen always wore black—the
girl placed the tray containing biscuits and wine before her,
bidding her eat and drink whilst she told her some news.

"Really important news," Hazel said, "and not altogether
good," she added, rather at a loss to know how to
follow Teddie's wise dictate, of which her own heart so
wholly approved.

"It cannot be altogether bad," her mother returned,
"though half afraid: you also look very glad about
something, Hazel."

"Well," Hazel responded, "I must not keep you on
tenterhooks, mother; so, if you promise to keep before
you the delicious, really delicious, view of the case, and
try not to mind the—er—rather awkward side, I will
tell you.  Teddie has been sack—has been dismissed,
you know," Hazel amended, then paused and regarded
her mother apprehensively.

To her immense relief, Helen, albeit a little startled
at this really alarming intelligence, was smiling at her
daughter's ingenuous way of breaking the same.

"One can't help being glad, can one?" Hazel said
simply, her countenance radiant, quite mistaking the
tenor of her mother's thoughts.  And the girl, fully
reassured, dropped all hesitancy of speech and, becoming
less guarded in the expression of her exultant joy,
proceeded without further dalliance to lay before her
mother a hundred-and-one good reasons for rejoicing
in the return of this redoubtable youngest son, only
lamenting the lack of a fatted calf for killing.

"We must hope that he will find something to do
before leaving his present position," Helen remarked,
Stroking the soft pink cheek, as Hazel, having exhausted
her repertory to hand, paused to collect further store
wherewith to swell the arguments in favour of her
generous premises.

Her raptures thus unwittingly checked, she could only
gaze upon her mother in mute dismay, truly concerned
to find that so important a detail of the momentous
announcement had yet to be imparted.

"Dearest," she said at length, "that is not likely.
He has so little time—the—the fact is, he is coming
home to-day"; and she drew from her bosom, where it
had lain, carefully concealed, the fateful pink paper.

"Hazel," her mother exclaimed, more alarmed than
the girl had yet seen her, "what can he have done to
be dismissed at a moment's notice?  Something must
be seriously wrong!"

"He has probably shied an inkpot at Carrots' head,"
Hazel returned laconically.  "But, motherling, he may
get some job or another quite quickly.  You know
what taking manners Teddie has, how every one likes
him the first moment of seeing him."

"Hazel, my dear child, what extraordinary expressions!
You really must not use such words," Helen
remonstrated, her breath fairly taken away by the girl's
remarkable suggestion as the solution of the proposition,
and her glib and peculiar phraseology in wording it.
"And why," Helen proceeded, "why should you imagine
that Teddie, a gentleman—a Le Mesurier—should so
demean himself as to throw inkpots at—er—at
Carrots, did you say, dear? at Carrots' head?  Who is
Carrots, pray?"

"I don't know who he is, motherling.  They call him
Carrots at the office because his hair is so red—Carrots
or the Lout.  Teddie generally speaks of him as the
Lout," Hazel rejoined meekly, in pretty penitence.

Mrs. Le Mesurier glanced uneasily at her daughter.
"Probably of French extraction," she murmured, the
suspicion, that this again might be a word not commonly
used among ladies, ousted from her mind on encountering
Hazel's innocently candid brown eyes.  "But, dear,
you have not yet explained.  Why should you imagine
for a moment that Teddie——"

"Well, you see, mother dear," the girl interposed,
eager to justify herself, "Teddie did it once before—I
thought he would have told you—and so I supposed it
not unlikely, considering how he enjoyed doing it that
time—having tasted blood, as it were—he should, if
roused, be unable to resist doing it again.  He says
there was a fearful row that time," she went on
enthusiastically, "Carrots gave a sort of bellow when the
inkpot struck him, and at that moment, who should come
into the room but—the boss.  I am not exactly using
slang now, mother," the girl hastened to explain, breaking
off the narrative at this most critical juncture, "I am
only quoting Teddie, who tells the story so
graphically—somehow, more classical language would not suit it.
Now would it?" she asked, quaintly deprecative.

"I fear you are too much with the boys, Hazel," her
mother remarked, gravely, "or rather, *were* too much
with them," she amended, a little sigh escaping her
for those absent ones, "and your mind was always
impressionable, your memory retentive.  Even as a tiny
child you would always clothe a story in the exact
words in which it had been told you, whether by servant,
schoolboy, or your mother and father."

"Yes, I do that rather," Hazel admitted contritely.
"I must always let people know I am quoting.  That
would make it better, at all events less bad, wouldn't it,
mother?" and she nestled fondly against her mother's
knee.

"Well, go on, dearie."  And Helen smiled to herself
as she stroked the curly head.  "What happened when
Mr. Hamilton came in?"

Thus encouraged, Hazel resumed the thread of her
narrative.  "Teddie says that Carrots blubbed pretty
badly—mind, dear, I am quoting Teddie," the girl again
interrupted herself, somewhat abashed to find that the
tale seemed to fairly bristle with words of doubtful repute,
"and, being a sneak, he instantly went and blabbed."

"What is that?" Helen asked.  "It is fortunate you
don't quote Teddie very often, Hazel."

"He told the—Mr. Hamilton all about it," Hazel
explained, "and Mr. Hamilton said: 'Le Mesurier,'"—here
Hazel assumed a dramatic pose, suggestive of
righteous wrath denouncing an evildoer—"'Le Mesurier,
if such scandalous behaviour occurs again, I shall
discharge you on the spot.  Had you been any young
man other than you are,'" Hazel continued, speaking in
a voice that would make righteous wrath itself tremble,
"'I should have requested you to leave my office instantly.
As it is, I shall expect you to apologise to Mr.'—I don't
know his name, mother—'and to make what amends you
can for your most unwarrantable behaviour.'"

"And did Teddie apologise?" Mrs. Le Mesurier
asked, much diverted.

"Not he," Hazel cried exultantly.  "The sequel
to the story bespeaks the character of both.  Teddie
offered Carrots five shillings instead—you know what
a very little pocket-money he has, mother; and if you
will believe it, the Lout accepted it.  The next day,"
Hazel continued, after a pause devoted to pacing the
room in some excitement, "Mr. Hamilton called Teddie
into his private office, and inquired whether a
reconciliation had been effected.  Teddie answered that
Carrots was satisfied.  'You did apologise, then,
Le Mesurier?' Mr. Hamilton asked, Teddie thought
in some surprise, though he tried to hide it.  'No, sir,'
says Teddie.  'No?' says Mr. Hamilton, puzzled.
'You said just now that the young man was satisfied.
Explain yourself, if you please.'  'I did not apologise,
I would rather leave you, sir, than do so; I offered
five shillings instead, and the'—I think Teddie said the
cad," Hazel broke off apologetically, "'and the cad
accepted it.'"

"Yes?" Mrs. Le Mesurier said interrogatively, too
much interested to expostulate.

"That was all," Hazel returned.  "Teddie says that
just then Mr. Hamilton had a fit of coughing, and, as
he held his handkerchief to his face, Teddie could not
see the expression.  So he took Mr. Hamilton's wave
of the hand as a sign to leave him, and went."

"My boy must have entertained an extraordinarily
poor opinion of the young man, to have proposed
giving him money instead of asking his pardon,"
Mrs. Le Mesurier commented.

"Yes indeed," agreed Hazel.  "It was a far worse
insult than having an inkpot thrown at your head.
But Teddie was justified in his opinion, mother, for
Carrots was quite pleased."

"And you don't know what it was that so angered
Teddie in the first instance?" Mrs. Le Mesurier asked.

"No, he would never tell me," Hazel answered.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER II`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II

.. vspace:: 2

On this fateful Monday the five o'clock train was
miraculously punctual.  At precisely two minutes
to the hour its serpentine, many-jointed body rounded
the bend of the line, gracefully and with dignity,
being neither flurried nor dilatory in its smooth,
gliding motion, emitting neither shrill whistle nor vulgar
puffings, as some quite well-appointed trains do,
thinking to force recognition of the length of their run and
their hard-pressed punctuality by triumphant noise or
most distressful breathing.  It is true that the great
engine gave vent to a soft, long-drawn sigh, and that
its huge body seemed to pulsate slightly as the train
ranged itself obligingly along the platform; but so
unostentatiously, so obviously desiring not to attract
attention, that it was to be supposed the monster's
heart really was a little delicate, occasioning
palpitation and more or less exhaustion.

A fair, curly head, unmistakably a Le Mesurier's,
had emerged from the window of a third-class
compartment some ten minutes before the train was
stationed, drinking in, with the usual rapacity, the
sweet sun-warmed air; and presently, the bend rounded,
a smile lighted the boyish face, as his eyes fell on a
little figure in brown cotton gown and shady straw
hat standing upon the platform.

"Confound it all," muttered the youngest son of
Hubert Le Mesurier—to whose memory, peace—"here
I have been practising how to make a long face, for
decency's sake, and was really beginning to feel a bit
low; and now the first glimpse of Hazel upsets it
all, and away goes melancholy."

Resisting a desire to fling himself from the train
while it was still in motion, as was his custom,
Teddie, awaiting his time, descended to the platform
as one whose soul is heavy within him; and Hazel,
her sunny smile checked at sight of her brother's
demeanour, came toward him sedately, in deference
to his feelings.

"How did she take it?" were Teddie's first words,
spoken in somewhat hollow accents.

"Much better than you would think," Hazel
responded, seeking to reassure him.  "Of course, she
hopes you will get some other employment quickly;
and—and, of course, Teddie dear, she is rather troubled
as to what it was, you know.  She is naturally afraid
that something rather serious may have occurred."

Hazel linked her arm comfortingly within her brother's,
the while she apprised him of these circumstances.
She did not attempt to persuade or coax his
confidence, knowing that in his own good time he would
tell her all.

Teddie groaned.

"You see," the girl continued, pressing the angular
elbow to her side, and looking up into the moody
countenance, "she can't help thinking it rather—rather
sudden: the dismissal, I mean.  That is only
natural, isn't it, Teddie?" Hazel asked apologetically.

"Your bag, sir," said Mitchell, the younger of the
two porters that the station boasted.  "Carry it up
for you, sir?" the man inquired respectfully.  The
Le Mesuriers were held in great esteem by Mitchell
and his colleagues.

"Thanks, Bob, no," the boy returned, "it is not
heavy"; and taking the lean, attenuated, and excessively
shabby portmanteau containing Teddie's night apparel
and toilet requisites from the man's hand, the brother
and sister walked from the station and out upon the
sunlit road.

"You must not take it too much to heart, old
fellow," Hazel said presently.  "How do you feel?"

"Rather cut up and a bit blue, you know," Teddie
responded with hesitancy.  "You see, it was rather sudden,
and—and came upon a fellow with rather a shock."

"Yes," Hazel agreed sympathetically; "it was sudden."

"So, of course, I feel it rather," Teddie continued
pathetically, though seemingly soothed.  "And,
anyway, I gave the brute a fine black eye," he broke out
gleefully, in startling exultation.

"Not—not Carrots?" gasped Hazel.

"The worst of it is," Teddie continued, gloom
descending once more, "the worst of it is that I am not
at all sure that Hugh may not turn up one day this
week—in this same way, you know.  He was given a month's
notice more than three weeks ago, but has said nothing
about it, hoping to get something else all this time."

"Does—does he wish to keep what he has done
private?" Hazel asked with delicate hesitancy, "or
may you tell me?"

"He has not *done* anything," her brother replied;
"that is just it: he won't work, you know.  I don't
blame the old boy, I have always known it to be simply
impossible for Hugh to work; if he gets a pen or pencil
in his fingers, he is bound to *draw*.  Have you not
noticed it in him?  His blotting-paper at the office is a
sight," Teddie continued, "and, which may have hastened
matters, his boss found a likeness of himself—not a
flattering one—among Hugh's papers."

"How dreadful!" said Hazel in consternation.

"Pretty bad, isn't it?" Teddie agreed.

"And oh, Teddie," the girl went on, "my pocket-money
gave out to-day.  You know how I like to
give mother some little delicacy.  I don't know whether
you could lend me any.  Sixpence would do for to-day."

Teddie felt in all his pockets and produced three
halfpence.  "I am awfully sorry," he said ruefully; "and
to think I spent one and fourpence on a steak to-day."

"You *must* have been hungry," his sister exclaimed,
amazed.

"Oh, not to eat," laughed Teddie.  "It was for
Carrots' eye."

Hazel looked her astonishment.

"You see," her brother explained, "it was after the
row.  Hamilton had gone out to lunch, and I was
going to mine, when I noticed that Carrots, who was
sitting at his desk, was holding his face in his hands
and groaning."

"Yes," said Hazel pitifully, "and then?"

"Well," Teddie continued, "the eye certainly looked
pretty bad—seemed to be a worse one than I really
intended to give him, you know, and it put me in
mind of beef steak somehow.  So I went to the
nearest butcher and bought one."

"But, Teddie," said Hazel, much interested, "surely a
much smaller piece would have done?"

"It never struck me," Teddie declared.  "I was never
in a butcher's shop before.  I suppose I thought they
would not halve it.  The master of the shop said:
'What can I do for you, sir?'  I said: 'I want a steak.'  'The
best?' he said.  'Yes,' I said; 'the juiciest you
have got: it is for—'  I was just going to tell him it
was for a black eye, but there was a wretched little
errand boy in the shop, grinning, so I said: 'It is for
one person.'  He slapped a piece on to the scales and
wrapped it up in newspaper, and said it would be one
and four—which was lucky, as I had got only one and
fivepence halfpenny.  I ran back to the office and
put it down on the desk, in front of Carrots, and went
out again."

"Did it do him any good?" Hazel asked.

"I don't know," her brother answered.  "I left for
good after that, you know."

"But, Teddie," she protested, "then you have had
no lunch."

"Oh, that does not matter," the boy rejoined
tragically, as on this reminder healthy pangs of
hunger reasserted themselves.  "That is quite the
least part of the whole bad business—I don't suppose
I *could* eat, you know, if I tried.  It is just possible,"
he continued, with increased gloom and some irritation,
"that the Lout had a rattling lunch with what was over:
he could easily fry it on the shovel over the office
gas."

"It would make the office smell rather, to cook
there, wouldn't it?" suggested Hazel.  "Mr. Hamilton
might be angry."

"An awfully nice smell," groaned Teddie, "enough
to make Hamilton want to sit in the outer office all the
rest of the afternoon."

Hazel, making a shrewd guess at her brother's
innermost feelings and private sufferings, endeavoured
to divert his mind from beefsteak or any other subject
likely to aggravate them.  And again affectionately
stroking the shabby coat sleeve, she proceeded to
discourse on divers topics, thus whiling away the time,
that must otherwise have dragged terribly for poor
hungry Teddy, as the two trudged along the somewhat
monotonous track of dusty road, under a sun that
was only now beginning to be aware that the hot
summer day was waning; that it would therefore
become him to restrain his ardour, and to relax his
fierce and fiery countenance to more gentle demonstrations
of his warm and impulsive temperament.

On reaching the house, after safely bestowing the
delinquent upon his mother's care, Hazel sped across
the marble-flagged hall, down one of the numerous
passages and through a baize-covered swing-door, which
shut off that portion of the house devoted to servants'
offices.  She made her way to the kitchen, an
old-fashioned stone kitchen, where sundry odours made
apparent the circumstance that dinner was in
preparation.  The two village maids dropped curtsies, and
Mrs. Doidge turned from the fire to welcome her young
lady.

"Will you kindly be seated, miss?" asked the
ex-housekeeper.  "Mattie, leave that bit of ironing and
place the easy chair nearer the window for Miss Hazel."

"No, Mrs. Doidge, thank you," Hazel interposed.  "I
cannot stay a moment.  I only wanted some slices of
bread and butter, rather thick, please, and a cup of tea,
if you have boiling water.  Mr. Teddie has come home,
as I daresay Miles told you; but what do you think?—he
has had no lunch."

The three women were quickly in a bustle, many
ejaculations of concern escaping Mrs. Doidge's lips, in
that Teddie, her pet and darling—next to Hazel, be
it understood—should thus be famishing within these
very walls.  Hazel had no need to urge haste, and was
presently bearing away a tray, followed by many
remonstrances from Mrs. Doidge, who protested she
could easily spare one of the maids on so short an errand.
Teddie, whose quick ear caught the tap of Hazel's
little foot against the panels, rose to give her
admittance, and hungrily eyed the food that he yet
deemed it only decent to turn from in seeming
disgust.

"Just leave it near me," he said, in response to his
sister's pleading.  "I may perhaps find I can nibble a
piece of bread presently."

Hazel had fully expected to find her mother and
brother deep in conversation concerning the circumstance
of his sudden, not to say precipitate, restoration
to the bosom of his family; but the truth was that
Teddie possessed very little information of which to
deliver himself.  It appeared that his *bête noire*, Carrots,
had grievously insulted the young gentleman, nor him
alone, but the ancient name of Le Mesurier, in grossest
manner, such as no gentleman, let alone a Le Mesurier,
could allow to pass and yet hope to retain his honour.
Therefore had Teddie risen up in his wrath, and, with
vengeful force, had smitten this enemy of his house,
inflicting a black eye.  The young man's employer
had at that moment made his appearance.  We have
the sequel of the story in the reappearance of poor
Teddie at Hazelhurst on the day of his departure thence.

Hazel, bent on humouring the hungry lad, after
placing the food within easy reach, discreetly turned
away and occupied eye and hand in the rearrangement
of flowers in their several vases, adroitly holding her
mother in conversation the while; but when, five
minutes later, having completed her task with all
possible deliberation, and having duly considered the
result of her labour, with head on this side and that,
the girl came forward to take her favourite seat beside
her mother's chair: lo, the cup was empty, the plate
bare, and Teddie was ingenuously reviewing his boots
in taciturn and blue-eyed melancholy.

Despite himself, however, the boy could not long
pretend to a condition so at variance with his joyful,
hopeful young nature.  In truth, by dinner-time, in
response to the second sounding of the gong, fresh
washed and dressed, his hunger appeased—for it is to
be supposed that Teddie was responsible for the
disappearance of the bread and butter and tea—he
presented himself, to Hazel's delight, in the likeness
of the more familiar Teddie, having set aside all
pseudo-dejection, and, if truth be told, looking
wonderfully handsome in his evening garb, which, though
shabby and curiously appointed with high lights in all
prominent places, was well brushed, and displayed a
goodly show of spotless and snow-white cuff.  So fresh
and handsome did the boy look, indeed, that Hazel,
quite impressed, regarded him in admiration.

"Why, Teddie," she cried, "how nice you look!  And
you were complaining, only last night, that your dinner
jacket was not fit to wear.  It is a little shiny, certainly,
but——"

"You don't suppose," said Teddie seriously, amazed
at her simplicity, "you don't suppose that I should be
such a noodle as to wear my own evening clothes?
No, no, I save my own, whenever I get the chance!"

"Oh, what a shame," Hazel expostulated.  "Then
whose are these?"

"Why, Hugh's," her brother informed her, with an
irrepressible chuckle.  "And it is all very well to cry
shame, Hazel; but why do you suppose this suit looks
so decent?  Because, forsooth, Hugh puts it carefully
away and wears mine whenever he can.  And again,
why has mine become so extremely shabby?  Because,
when he has it on—and he manages to wear it pretty
often, let me tell you—he is utterly reckless as to how
he treats it: he will lie upon the grass in it; and he
wore it a great deal while he was making those
bookshelves for you, and messing about generally in the
carpenter's room of an evening."

"Mrs. Doidge has fine-drawn the hole in the knee
where the chisel went through, sir," murmured Miles, as
he offered his young master the vegetables, with
deferential bend, "and I brushed and laid everything out
upon your bed, sir, as usual."

"Thank you, Miles; yes, I saw that," Teddie rejoined.
"Well, they will be all the readier.  I am afraid I shall
be wearing them very soon: something tells me that it
won't be long before Hugh comes," he added, turning to
Hazel.

Good, faithful Miles!  With how much perseverance
did he endeavour, in things great and small, to keep up
his loved "family" to the level of their former status,
deeming such condition essential to their well-being!
With what toil and labour did he strive that each of his
young masters should at all times appear well groomed,
that they might not miss, nor show they lacked, the
attentions of the two valets whose services had been
entirely devoted to his five sons, by Hubert's order!

And indeed, as Miles himself was wont to confess, if
it were not for the saving help of their faithful servant,
long ere this would the young gentlemen have presented
themselves at dinner in morning dress, to be tended by
a couple of maids—Miles always lost his equanimity at
the mere thought of women at table.  He shuddered to
contemplate the probable condition of the plate and
glass, that constituted his greatest pride, under feminine
control.

He would look into the drawing-room or search the
hall—either of which places were gathering grounds of
the family—a few minutes before the sounding of the
dinner-gong, and if one luckless Le Mesurier boy
chanced to be lurking in some corner, in morning garb,
hoping to escape the watchful eye of the redoubted
butler, Miles would immediately spy him out, and with
bland severity inform the delinquent that he would ask
Mrs. Doidge to "put the dinner back" a quarter of
an hour, if his young master could find that sufficient
time in which to make his toilet.  His patient
persistence at length shamed the boys into meek
acquiescence, so that Miles had relaxed his stern vigilance
somewhat of late, showing in its stead a pathetic trust
in their own sense of right, such as they could not disregard.

The flower-garden too, in the immediate neighbourhood
of the house, would be overrun with weeds—as he
had once found it after a month's confinement to the
house with an obstinate attack of rheumatism—entailing
the extra expense of outside help for their suppression.
It is true that Miss Hazel had wrestled with the noxious
growths—as her little brown hands testified, for she
either could not or would not keep on the queerly
fashioned and enormous gloves that Mrs. Doidge
assured the girl were the correct thing for gardening,
and with which the good woman was careful to supply
her; but what was his little mistress's feeble strength,
pitted against the alarming odds of the pertinacious
herbage? Miles asked pitifully, when even he, tough,
work-hardened old man that he was, found the fight a
fierce and oft-to-be-repeated one: for the foe, fresh and
smiling in their green uniform, seemed to bear charmed
lives, and to rise in formidable ranks like so many
phoenixes from the weed carnage.  Extermination
seemed an impossibility, notwithstanding the feverish
energy with which Miles went forth to combat, and the
wondrous strategy that he brought to bear upon the
imposing and ever-smiling green army.





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.. _`CHAPTER III`:

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   CHAPTER III

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Two days later, Teddie and Hazel, she seated on
far-stretching, hopelessly tangled tree-roots, he
prone upon his back on the dry moss, disported
themselves in the leafy shade of the beloved
greenwood, deep in consultation on the same momentous
question that Hazel had endeavoured to solve alone:
how might she earn money?

Typewriting had been discussed, but the idea was
soon abandoned, Teddie informing his sister that, to
be successful in that branch of industry, a peculiar kind
of appearance was desirable—indeed, was essentially
needful—an appearance that Hazel entirely lacked, as
she herself would admit, could she see "the sort"
that frequented the office adjoining Mr. Hamilton's.

"Why," the boy declared, "they would simply stare
if *you* suddenly turned up there and asked for a job,
and the boss would inquire delicately where your
mother was, and would instruct his head clerk to take
you back to her."

"I should not go like this," Hazel returned, deprecatingly,
fingering a piece of her white spotted muslin,
and eyeing her brother wistfully.  "I should probably
have a tailor-made tweed dress, and a man's straw hat,
and thick boots, and a stand-up collar and tie.  You
have no idea how—how strong-minded I could look, if
I had the proper dress for bringing it out.  Most women
owe it to their dress: I am quite sure they don't feel
and stride about like that, in their dressing-gowns."

She regarded him pleadingly; the mere thought
of becoming one of the City band—the doing away
for ever with the dolorous Monday morning partings—above
all, the obtaining of means to supply her
mother with endless little luxuries, made the
proposition a very tempting one to the girl.

But Teddie shook his head.  "It is a peculiar
*stamp*," he said musingly, "and, take my word for it,
Hazel, it is not all in the clothes.  Why, some of
them dress quite æsthetically; but it is no go, they
are typewriters.  Not that I disapprove of them as a
class," he hastened to add.  "If it comes to that,
some of them are quite pretty, but—well, you would
not do, and that is all about it."

There was a short silence.  The sun glinted in and
out among the tree-branches in shimmering shafts of
yellow light, the leaves quivered slightly in the still
air, the birds chirped, and Hazel sighed.

"Besides," Teddie continued, feeling perhaps that
he had been somewhat unsympathetically sweeping
in his assertions, "there would be the expense of
learning.  You don't become a full-blown typewriter
all at once, you know.  You don't just sit down and
manage it, so to speak, as you happen to be able to
play the piano—without lessons."

Hazel brightened visibly so soon as this very real
obstacle—means—was put before her: she was willing
to give up any attempt at scaling an obstruction that
would obviously harm her in the ascent.  It was not
that she was cowardly, or easily discouraged—far from
it: never was girl pluckier or keener spirited; but she
was wise in her generation, and saw that the loss
entailed in the attempt to gain was greater than the gain
itself; that the other side of the block, in short, was not
worth the reaching.

"That is true," she admitted, relieved.  "There is
the tailor-made dress, too!  Let us talk of other
ways."  She hesitated.  "Now, don't laugh, Teddie," she went
on, "just think seriously over what I am going to
propose, and then say yes or no, after due consideration,
you know.  Teddie—could I be a governess?"  And
the girl unconsciously straightened her back, while an
expression of mild severity overspread her countenance.

Teddie's surprise at this, to him astounding, idea
silenced his tongue.  After a few moments the slender
figure drooped—Hazel never stooped, she drooped: as
different a state, mental and physical, as ugliness from
beauty—the pretty features relaxed.

"Of course I know," she resumed modestly, "that
they would have to be very, very young children—or
very backward older ones.  I should prefer the backward
ones: the very young are so fascinating.  I don't know
whether I should have the strength of mind, if they
were hot and tired, and wanting to play, to insist on
their finishing the spelling-lesson or sum; and I know
that, while you cannot be too kind and too patient,
you also cannot be too firm in having the little task
completed.  But," she added reflectively, chin in hand,
"I should be wise and see to it that the task was a very
short and easy one, especially if the child was particularly
longing to go out, or was not quite well."

The girl had almost forgotten her brother's presence,
and had entered into a little world of her own.  She
pictured to herself a pleasant, airy schoolroom with
three or four happy, rosy children seated at the table,
of which she herself was the head, strewn with the
usual schoolroom paraphernalia: rulers, slates, dingy
spelling-books of dog's-eared, awe-inspiring columns of
words, slate pencils whose points and bluntness alike
set your teeth on edge when you looked at them;
copy-books with pot-hooks and hangers to copy in
pencil—for Hazel would permit no inkpots nor
ink-bespattering pens to enter her domain, to sully the
purity of clean pinafores and childish fingers.  Yes,
she would be careful that the room should be airy,
for she knew that much of rosy-cheeked happiness must
depend upon that; the lessons short and interesting:
for how should a child, mewed up in a close atmosphere,
set to learn a tedious task, which no older mind had
first rendered pleasant and understandable by a little
intelligent smoothing and explaining, be aught but
fidgety, cross, and unhappy?  A child's mind should
be lightly taxed, Hazel decided.  She also decided that,
however unorthodox it might be, she would always
have freshly cut flowers upon her schoolroom table.
Lessons were to be connected with pretty things, as
well as with smeary slate and dingy spelling-book.
Besides, how useful they would be in furnishing themes
on which to discourse to her eager-eared young
charges!

These ideas floated through the girl's vivid imagination
within the space of a few moments only.  Presently
she roused herself, and shook herself free of the reverie
into which she had fallen.

"I suppose it ought to be the backward ones," she
said with a sigh.

"To think of Miss Le Mesurier becoming a governess,"
Teddie observed ruminatingly.  "It is ridiculous, Hazel.
Why, you would be romping with them round the
table?  And why are they to be so very young or,
if older, dolts?  Do you mean you cannot teach?"

"I don't quite know," Hazel returned, hesitating and
pausing.  "My—my education has been—er—has been
rather choppy, hasn't it?" she asked a little timidly,
fearful of wounding her brother's feelings, for the five
boys had had practically the charge of their little sister's
education.  Cecil, until he had obtained his present
post in the Indian Civil Service, had given her a daily
lesson in some or other branch of knowledge, at
irregular times, certainly—an occasional hour before
breakfast, or half an hour before bedtime.  But the
girl was an apt pupil.  She marked, learned, and
inwardly digested—her clever little brain seemed to be
well nourished: for the food on which it was fed,
albeit scanty, was of goodly quality, and the very
ample time allowed her for the assimilation of each
respective lesson was perhaps the secret, in part, of
her strongly marked digestive power.

Then Guy had taken her in hand, but soon confessed
himself no teacher—that Hazel's odd questions puzzled
him.  Soon afterwards he left home to play his modest
part in the government of his country.  The girl was
then passed over to Gerald—good, steady, faithful,
plodding Gerald.  In him she found her master: he
an intelligent, interesting pupil.  Together they would
while away the long morning hours in profound study,
in summer taking their books to the woods; in winter
the bearskin before the hall hearth would often be the
scene of their labour.

Necessity, however, caused long months of enforced
holiday, when the girl would have been impatient of
days, and of late Saturday evening had become the only
time possible for Gerald to devote to two or three
hours of tutorage; while on Sunday, between church
hours, the young man would read aloud and make
instructive comments to a little auditor, all ears and
eyes, upon books, the like of which caused the hair
of Hugh and Teddie to rise upon their heads in amaze,
in that their brother and sister should find pleasure in
such "deadly dry stuff," to couch the expression in
their own tongue.  And Monday morning would see
the persevering tutor, at a very early hour, correcting
writings of his pupil's authorship, and further arranging
a programme for the ensuing days of his absence.

"I don't fancy I am well grounded," the girl went
on, "and I should suppose that to be very important to
teachers."  She paused.

"I must say," Teddie remarked remonstrantly, "that
you are not very complimentary to Gerald—or to me,
if it comes to that.  I have given you a turn at
arithmetic, myself, and I have found you smart enough."

"Yes, oh yes, thank you, old fellow," Hazel returned
hastily, apologetically.  "He and—and you"—it
appeared a little difficult to the girl to make the
addition—"have the talent of teaching.  Now, even supposing
my learning to be sufficient, have *I*?"

"I don't see that it *is* the question," returned her
brother, much mollified, "for none of us would let you
become a governess: it would be too absurd—you are
only a child yourself."

At this Hazel waxed indignant.  "I am young,"
she admitted with naïve frankness, "but I am tall
and fond of children.  Mother was saying lately that
my next new dress must be made quite long.  See,"
she cried, springing up and walking swiftly to and fro
in straight-limbed, supple grace, "they are all but long
already.  And of course," the girl continued, resuming
her seat, "I should do up my hair and wear 'ladies','
instead of 'girls'' hats.  As I said before, you have no
idea how much is owed to clothes."

There was a short silence.  Teddie, upon his back,
groaned slightly.

"Now listen, Teddie," Hazel presently continued, "I
have one more plan to lay before you and, really, out
of three, it is only reasonable to expect you to think
seriously of one, and finally to agree to try it and
help me to persuade mother.  In this last plan,
indeed, we need not consult her—she need know
nothing about it, but just live happily and enjoy the
results of it."

The girl paused and looked about her, half startled,
on encountering the inquisitive glance of the bright
eyes of her favourite squirrel who, afraid to approach
nearer—his mistress, the wood-nymph, seemingly
entertaining company—appeared to be listening with all his
might for the proposition about to be unfolded by her.

"Teddie," Hazel said, bending over him and speaking
low, "what do you say to us—to you and me—*keeping
a lodger* at Hazelhurst?"

In the pause that ensued Teddie rolled over upon
his face, but never a word spoke he.  Hazel regarded
him a little anxiously, uncertain as to his state of
mind.  At length he broke the silence.

"*We should have to feed it*," he remarked, in hollow
accents.

"I thought of that," Hazel returned eagerly,
delighted that the proposal met with no more definite
negative, "but suppose we were lucky—suppose we
found a very delicate one, who wanted heaps of fresh
air—we could give it the whole of the west wing,
for instance—but one that could eat hardly anything?
But no, that would not do," she continued, after
pausing to reflect, "it would be more expense in the
end, than less, to have a delicate lodger, I mean.
You see, one would have to provide chicken and
jelly, even if it would not eat, just to try to tempt
it.  No, we hid better look out for a moderately
healthy one, but one who was used to plain food, you
know: the sort that likes bread and cheese for lunch,
better than anything else, and is a firm teetotaller.
Who is that coming, I wonder?" she broke off
suddenly.

The two raised themselves to listen, in breathless
silence.

"Perhaps it is some one looking for lodgings,"
Teddie whispered mischievously.  "Now remember,
Hazel, twenty guineas a week for the west wing, garrets
five shillings each, and the basement seven-and-six."

"It is Hugh," the girl exclaimed, springing to her
feet and running to meet the fourth Le Mesurier
boy, who, hot, dusty, and tired, yet returned his
sister's greeting affectionately, if somewhat
shame-facedly, as he became aware of the presence of his
brother.

Teddie, at Hazel's exclamation, had sunk back into
his former position and now lay, cool and comfortable,
complacently regarding the new-comer with twinkling
eyes.

"Hallo!" he said brightly.  "So you have turned
up, have you?  I hope you will be comfortable.  I
have spent a very pleasant couple of days here
myself.  I ran down, without lunch, on Monday, and
Mrs. Doidge has been feeding me up ever since."  And
Teddie gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction.

"Slack beast," murmured Hugh disgustedly.  Yielding
to the silent entreaty of Hazel's little hand and
seating himself upon some moss, he threw off his hat
and proceeded to mop his damp face.

"What is that?" Teddie asked innocently.  "But,
I say, you do look hot, old fellow.  Walked up, I
suppose?"

"Ugh," grunted Hugh.

"Doubtless in some perturbation of mind," Teddie
continued sympathetically.  "Very heating, this
weather.  And your bag, too—had books in it,
perhaps?"

A slightly sardonic smile overspread Hugh's
countenance.

"Talking of books, there was one of yours that I
packed with mine," he announced in a friendly way,
"and I left the bag at the station, thinking you might
like to fetch it."

Teddie's blue eyes of a sudden blazed with wrath.
"Do you mean to say," he asked, an ominous quietude
marking his manner, "do you mean to say that you
left a heavy bag of books at the station for me to
fetch, your only excuse being that the bag contains
a wretched thirty-page paper-covered pamphlet on
Dentistry that chanced to be left in my name at our
lodgings?"

"Partly that," returned Hugh, with the same air of
engaging frankness.  "I thought you would be pleased
to see it again, and I knew it would grieve you to
have me toiling up with anything belonging to you.
Also partly because I thought the exercise would do
you good: you have been out at grass long enough.
I am glad I was so fully justified in my ideas," he
added, "for on your own admitting you are eating
your head off, and doing nothing all day."

"I hope you have a second supply of hair-brushes
and—er—other things pertaining to the toilet," Teddie
observed politely, his anger evaporated, a similar smile
lighting his boyish features, "because I don't suppose
you will feel inclined to make a second trip to the
station to-day, and I don't happen to be going that
way this afternoon.  By the way, I shall have to wear
my own dress clothes to-night," he added, with the air
of one who is struck with an idea that necessitates
reflection.

It was now Hugh's turn to wax indignant, but the
sight of Hazel returning at this auspicious moment,
bearing in her hand a large glass of lemon-squash,
which she tendered to the hot and dusty lad,
extinguished instantly the dire wrath that was kindling
within his breast, making him feel very amiable toward
his thoughtful little sister in particular, and to a world
that included Teddie, in general.

"Ah," he exclaimed, pausing in the draught in order
to take a deep breath, "there is nothing like lemon-squash
in hot weather," and he turned a softened pair
of blue eyes upon his brother, with a look of gathering
trust that seemed only to ask sympathy.

Teddie vainly tried to look indifferent as he regarded
the favoured Hugh a trifle wistfully; but nature is
weak.

"It is a curious thing, Hazel," he remarked insinuatingly,
"how awfully thirsty one gets this weather,
even doing nothing."

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," the girl made answer,
"but Mrs. Doidge has no more spare lemons.  Perhaps
Hugh——" she broke off: it was too late.  The glass
was drained to the last drop, and Hugh, with a sigh
of contentment, arranged his long limbs upon the
mossy carpet for half an hour's repose before luncheon.

A couple of hours later Teddie, tired of inaction,
being besides of an extremely good-hearted disposition,
having melted sufficiently toward his brother, took his
way to the station for the purpose of carrying home
that brother's personal effects; but, only human, he
could not resist the desire to open the bag and subtract
therefrom the luckless pamphlet, which he proceeded
to tear into shreds and scatter along the hedgerow.





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.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

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   CHAPTER IV

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About a week after the circumstances of mixed
joy and embarrassment recorded in the last
chapter, there came strolling through the Le Mesuriers'
wood one Paul Charteris, tall, lithe, and handsome
being in the thirty-first year of his age.  The master
of Earnscleugh was on his way to Hazelhurst with the
intention of paying his respects to its mistress, whom he
had not seen for some six or seven years, having for that t
space of time been an attach in the British Embassy at
St. Petersburg.  Eight years since, on the death of his
father, Vivian, his elder brother, had inherited
Earnscleugh and all pertaining to it, including the great town
house.  Vivian was devoted to his brother, and begged
that they two should continue to share the old home as
heretofore.  But Paul's was a restless spirit: his college
career ended, he must be up and doing.  The interest of
influential friends soon obtained for the young man the
coveted post in Russia, and Vivian, with regret, was
perforce obliged to yield where he had no authority
to interfere.  Therefore, for six long years was Paul
Charteris no more seen among his people.  Yet, while
the elder brother yearned for the companionship he had
always known, he could not but admit that it was better
so, that action was necessary to Paul.  For himself it
was different He was essentially a student by nature,
and wished only for a retired life.  A slight limp in his
gait fostered and favoured this recluse propensity, and
the solitary years before his death were lived almost
exclusively in the library at Earnscleugh, devoted to
study, at such times as his multifarious duties with
steward or lawyer—faithfully and patiently performed
by the young master—left him free to follow his own
devices.

Then came the death of Vivian at the early age of
three-and-thirty, and Paul was called to take upon his
own shoulders the responsibility of the vast estates
of Earnscleugh.

He did not respond at once.  Indeed, it would have
been difficult for him to throw up his position at short
notice.  Neither had the young man any great inclination
to take possession of his own, for the inheritance was
rendered hateful to him, that had come to him only with
the loss of his brother.  He dreaded the sight of the
empty place, the lonely library, the disused smoking-room,
with its many familiar objects: skins of animals,
boyish attempts at photography that the two brothers
had always kept upon the walls and mantelshelf, as
relics of their happy childhood.  He shuddered as he
thought upon such desolation.

So that a year had elapsed since the death of Vivian,
and Paul had arrived only a few days since, his trouble
somewhat softened by the healing of time.  Nevertheless,
it was a sorrowful ordeal.  He yearned inexpressibly for
the sight of his brother's form, seated in the old place
at the study table, as he had so often pictured to himself;
for the gladness that was wont to light Vivian's features
at the appearance of himself, after even a temporary
separation; for the tones of his voice.  However, the
first dreaded days were rendered considerably less
painful by the almost continuous presence of Mr. Lewis,
the family solicitor, or Crawford, the steward.

Yet, the first press of affairs over, Paul found more
leisure in which to indulge his sorrow, and very sorely
it beset him: its tyranny at length forcing him to rouse
himself and endeavour to throw off the oppression.
He presently bethought him of the friends and acquaintances
of years gone by, and determined upon a course
of visits, that should at once renew kindly recollections
and while away the tedium of hours not enlightened by
work.  The Le Mesuriers were naturally uppermost in
his mind, for the Hazelhurst estates joined those of
Earnscleugh.  They were nice enough boys, he was
glad to remind himself—they would be strapping young
fellows by now—and for their mother he entertained
affectionate memories, for she had been a good friend
and counsellor to the two motherless sons of Philip
Charteris.  Vivian, indeed, could remember her first
coming to Hazelhurst, a bright, beautiful young creature,
and the boy of six had formed quite a romantic attachment.
Then there was that little brown witch of a girl,
Hazel.  Hazel must be sixteen or seventeen, Paul
reflected, and he smiled at the recollection of their
last interview, seven years since.

He had taken leave of Mrs. Le Mesurier and of such
Le Mesurier boys as were present, and was departing
through the wood, without accomplishing a farewell to
his little friend Hazel, who was nowhere to be found.
Passing beneath an oak, he heard above him a
suppressed exclamation, then the rending of "gathers,"
and the child stood beside him, holding her torn frock
together with one hand and courteously tending him the
other.

"You are going away, aren't you?" she had asked
him gravely.  "You have been to say good-bye to
mother and the boys?" and she turned to accompany
him to the boundary fence.

"Yes," Paul replied, "and I was afraid I should have
to go without seeing you."

"It would not have mattered," she answered, "you
saw me on Tuesday, only three days ago.  What will
it matter, when you are going away for years, whether
you saw me on Tuesday or Friday?"

"But I did not say good-bye on Tuesday," Paul
returned, much amused.  "That matters; don't you
think so?"

"No," Hazel said quaintly.  "Going away means
good-bye.  There is no need to say it, except in your
heart."

"Still I like to say it to you and in my heart as
well," Paul persisted.  "To-morrow, when I shall be
already in Paris, I shall be saying, 'Good-bye, little
Hazel, good-bye; don't forget me.'  And then I shall
like to recall how you looked and what you said in
answer."

At this juncture they had reached the fence dividing
the two estates, and Paul turned to face his little
companion.

"I am going away for years," he said, a trifle
wistfully.  "Will you give a fellow a kiss, Hazel?"

"No," Hazel returned decisively.  "I am sorry, but
I am too old.  You may take both my hands, if you
like," she added graciously.

Paul gratefully possessed himself of the proffered
hands, and looked long into the upturned childish eyes.

"I wonder whether you will be as pretty when I come
back as you are now," was his boyish comment.

"I don't know," Hazel returned indifferently.  "I
hope I shan't be any browner," she added; "the boys
do tease me so."

"And shall you be saying 'good-bye, Paul,' in your
heart to-morrow?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course," she said earnestly, somewhat surprised
at the question.  "All the time till you are home
again."

"Let me hear you say it now," he entreated.

"Good-bye, Paul," she said obediently, and made to
withdraw her hands.

"And you are quite sure about the—about the kiss?"
he asked diffidently.

Hazel regarded him in mild reproach.

"I am sorry," he said hastily.  "I did not mean to
ask again.  Good-bye, Hazel; don't forget me."

He vaulted over the fence and was gone.

Following the same twisting path that he had passed
over then, with his child companion, the young man
was presently aware that his dog, which had trotted on
ahead, was leaping backwards and forwards before a
certain tree, breaking into short, excited barks.  Thinking
it likely that Towzer was scaring some pet or other
of Hazel's, Paul called sharply to his four-footed friend,
but was not heeded by that usually most obedient of
dogs.  Becoming angry, he quickened his pace, and,
raising his stick, was about to punish Towzer, when, to
his astonishment, its point was seized from above and
held firmly—after one or two ineffectual efforts to wrest
it from his hand—while a girlish voice said, in laughing
tones:

"No, you don't."

Paul peered up, in among the clustering foliage, and
presently descried the recumbent form of a girl, lying
at full length along one of the great boughs—her dress,
of the exact shade of the bark, rendering her discovery
difficult.  The girl released her hold of the stick and
sat up, one slender foot and ankle becoming visible
beneath the canopy of leaves above the young man's
head, and with both hands she parted the green screen
before her face and peeped down at him.  It was a
lovely face that Paul beheld—bewitching, indescribable
in its charm, framed in soft brown hair.

"Hazel—Miss Le Mesurier," he cried, "have you
lived in that tree ever since I went away?"  For he
now recognised the giant oak.  "I always said you
were a little Dryad.  Won't you deign to come down
and be mortal for a while?"

"Certainly," returned Miss Le Mesurier, and hesitated.
"If you will be so good as to walk on," she
added, rather severely, "I will join you in a few
moments."

Paul did as he was bidden.  A rustling among the
branches ensued, then a light jump to the ground; and
as he turned eagerly to greet her, Paul was almost
expectant of seeing one little hand occupied in the
holding together of a rent skirt, so vivid were old
associations with him just then.  She came swiftly to
his side, the soft cloud of hair floating around her.
In the brown eyes shone a glad friendliness—the same
grave, direct regard he remembered so well: a child-like,
inquiring, essentially intelligent gravity, often to be
remarked in clever, highly sensitive faces—and Hazel's
was a very clever and acutely sensitive little face, in
the truest sense for women, womanly.  But, though
childlike and open as ever, the expressive countenance
was more grand, more noble—an earnest that the
beautiful little nature of the *child* Hazel had grown up
in the way of its starting, without deviation.

She held out a hand to Paul, very slightly larger
than the one that had bidden him farewell; and if it
was not browner, it was quite as brown, but such a
pretty, soft, warm tinge in the clear, transparent skin
as made all whiter skin appear harsh in contrast, to
Paul's thinking.  It courteously shook his, and withdrew.

"How long have you been home?" she asked, when
the wise, childlike eyes were satisfied; and, truly, Paul
was a goodly sight.

"Six days," Paul returned.  "I arrived here on
Monday.  But there was work to see to; and, besides,
I did not feel like visiting any one, just at first."

"Of course," the girl responded sympathetically.
"The boys will be home to-day," she added.  "Three
of them.  So to-morrow—to-night even—you will have
something cheering."

"I feel cheered already," Paul returned, cheerfully
enough, as they turned to walk on together in the
direction of the house.  "How are they?  How is your
mother?" he inquired.

"Mother is fairly well," Hazel replied.  "The boys
are always well."

"And doing well?" Paul asked.  "Affairs are prospering,
I hope?"—the fortunes of the Le Mesuriers
were ever an open secret.

"No," Hazel admitted, frankly and without reserve,
"things are rather bad, and we are dreadfully poor
just now—especially myself.  You would hardly believe
it," she went on confidentially, "but if it had not
been for one and sixpence that Hugh gave me last
Wednesday—already it has come down to eightpence—I
should not possess a halfpenny.  See," and the girl
held out a limp little silken purse.

Paul took it from her.  "What a quaint little thing!
May I look inside?" he asked.

"Of course," Hazel said.  "But I have told you
exactly what is in it: eightpence."

And sure enough, two threepenny pieces and four
halfpennies rolled out upon Paul's open palm.

"It is partly owing to the fact of Hugh and Teddie
being out of work," Hazel went on, when the purse
had been restored to her, and safely bestowed in
her pocket.  "They are in town to-day looking for
something.  But I am very much afraid they won't
find anything.  You know," she added, unconsciously
moving a little nearer to him as they walked, "the
main difficulty is, I believe, that they don't look
'clerky,' and their name is not a 'clerky' one, is
it?  These trifles make a difference, don't you
think?"  And she looked up at him with considering,
brown eyes.

"I am sure they must," Paul assented.

"It only struck me lately," Hazel, following her
own train of thought, presently resumed, "quite lately,
how exactly like the portrait of Hugo Le Mesurier
Teddie is.  Of course Hugo has long hair and a lace
collar—he was a Cavalier in the days of Cromwell,
you know—but if he changed his clothes and cut his
hair, the face alone would be enough to make people
say they did not require a clerk"—and she sighed.

"I can well believe it," Paul agreed, sympathetically.

"I have been consulting the boys as to how I might
earn a little money, if it were only five shillings
a week," the girl continued.  "They say I don't look
like a typewriter.  What do you think?"

"Great Heavens, no!" Paul ejaculated vehemently,
horrified at the bare suggestion.

"That is how they feel," Hazel returned resignedly.
"Only, they are a little calmer about it: they have
seen so many, you know, poor things," she added,
ingenuously.  "Next," she began again, after a slight
pause, "we considered letting lodgings, without
mother's knowledge.  But Teddie says a 'cute lodger
would take me in horribly.  He says I am no more
cut out for a landlady than for a typewriter.  Do
you agree with that?"

"Most emphatically," Paul replied, unable to restrain
a smile, which, however, escaped the girl's notice.

"You do?" she said, a trifle wistfully, as though
half disappointed.  "I hoped that you might, on
thinking it over, consider it not such a bad plan
as it at first appeared to you.  I had thought of an
invalid lady-lodger, who would require plenty of fresh
air, but very little food.  Though on second thoughts
it occurred to me that we should have to persuade
her with all sorts of dainties.  So that would not
do.  But a gentleman, now, a gentleman, however
unscrupulous in most matters, would not take a lady
in, would he?"  And the girl looked for his assurance.

"He would be an infernal cad if he did," Paul
returned fiercely, tugging at his moustache.

"Yes," Hazel agreed.  "I should hardly think that
quite such cads existed, should you?  Such very
infernal ones, I mean.  For even the greatest
gentleman cad must have the sleeping instincts of a
gentleman."

Paul's face was inscrutable.

"Now a bounder is different," was Hazel's startling
announcement.  "A bounder has never been a gentleman.
He was born bounding, as you might say.
I would rather deal with a cad myself: a bounder
is so hopeless."

There was a short silence, devoted by both to
reviewing the situation.

"But, Haz—Miss Le Mesurier," Paul amended, "you—you
surely are not seriously thinking of—of this?
Especially a gentleman.  It—it—well, it would not be
very usual, you know, especially if your mother is to
be kept in ignorance."

"You mean, it is not the thing?" Hazel asked,
simply, coming to his aid.  "Oh, but we Le Mesuriers
never trouble much about conventionalities," she
explained airily.  "Teddie says that ladies or gentlemen
are always safe in following their inclinations—provided,
of course, that those inclinations are not bad.  Now, I
don't think you could call my inclinations bad," she
went on, meditatively, giving to the weighty question
its due consideration.  "They do rather lead me to
take in a gentleman lodger, but he need not necessarily
be a cad, you must remember.  He might be very
nice, and we might get quite fond of him."

"Certainly," poor Paul agreed, rather helplessly.  It
was evident that Hazel had interpreted his words to
mean, he was under the impression that she, and the
Le Mesuriers generally, delighted in cads and the like
doubtful company.

At this juncture they reached the flower-garden,
which, thanks be to Miles, looked pleasant enough.
The girl led her companion swiftly through its winding
paths and up the broad flight of steps.  The marble-paved
hall, with its shaded open windows, was deliciously
cool and refreshing after the heat and glare
without.  In one of the wide recesses Miles was busied
about the tea-table, collecting chairs from different
quarters of the sparsely furnished hall.  He turned
as the two approached.

"You remember Miles?" Hazel asked of Paul.
"Miles, Mr. Charteris has come home."

The old man bowed deferentially and made to
withdraw, but Paul went forward and took the hand of
the faithful old servant.

"Remember Miles?  I should think I did, and the
many things he has forgiven me when I was a boy,"
he said warmly.

A gleam of pleasure lighted the butler's furrowed
countenance.

"I have had a deal of experience of boys," he said,
somewhat sententiously, "having five young masters
of my own, and I know what is natural to them, and
only right, and what is wrong."

"And I was only natural, was I?" Paul laughingly
asked.

"Yes, sir," Miles answered stolidly.

Hazel, who had gone in quest of her mother, soon
returned with Helen.

"I am very glad to see you, Paul," Mrs. Le Mesurier
said simply, regarding him with something of her
daughter's direct gaze.  "You are 'Paul' still, I
hope?"

"If you will—if you please," he returned earnestly,
and it suddenly occurred to the young man that
Hazel had not named him at all.

He remarked little change in Mrs. Le Mesurier,
save that she appeared to him more frail, perhaps,
and the blue eyes seemed almost grey, as though
the tears of her great grief had faded them.

"We have much to tell you of Vivian," she
observed, as they seated themselves and Hazel made tea.
"You know what a student he was, but he always
found time to come to us, and always welcomed my
children to his house.  Indeed, they had the run of
it at all times," she added.  "I often feared it must
inconvenience him."

"It was his greatest happiness," Paul said simply.
"He frequently mentioned the boys and—and your
daughter in his letters to me, and how their presence
enlivened the old home."

"Poor Vivian!" Helen murmured.  "He missed you
sadly, Paul; but he always confessed that things were
best as they were; that he would not have you home
to pine in idleness."

She related many anecdotes of his brother that she
knew would cheer Paul, and they fell to talking over
old reminiscences, presently coming back to the topics
of to-day, and the existing state of affairs; and Paul
was soon laying before Helen a plan of his own
sudden devising.

"Why should not Hugh come to me for a while
as my secretary?" he asked.  "If he does not care
for the work, after giving it a trial, he can continue
his search in the City."

"I don't want to seem conceited," Hazel broke in upon
the conversation.  She was seated near her mother on a
low stool, chin in hand, deeply interested in all that
passed.  "I don't want to seem conceited," she said
modestly, "but I can't help thinking that you had
better have *me*.  One often hears of lady secretaries,"
she went on, in expostulation at the smile upon her
mother's face, a smile that Paul's countenance reflected;
"it would be delightful, and you would not mind how
I dressed, would you?" she added, turning eagerly to
Paul.  "You would let me have my hair down, and let
me wear what I liked, provided I came punctually at
the hours you named, and did the work properly."

Paul looked upon the ground.  It was difficult to
keep the muscles about his mouth under control.  Helen
was about to speak when Hazel resumed: for it appeared
to her that Paul was considering the matter.

"I dare say you would be rather cross with me sometimes,
at first," she admitted, "and think my writing
queer and untidy; but I should soon fall into your ways,
and my writing is at least legible.  I have more of a
business head than Hugh," she added, after a pause.
"You see, I am not hampered by a love of drawing."

Mrs. Le Mesurier had acquainted her guest with
Hugh's difficulties of temperament.

The girl awaited a decision breathlessly, but it was
Helen who first spoke, the while Paul contemplated the
little brown business head, with its wonderful, drooping
hair, in silent and varied emotions.

"It would not do, Hazel," she said quietly.  "Neither
Paul nor myself would like it, nor think it wise."

Hazel glanced quickly at Paul, only to see him confirm
her mother's words by a smiling shake of the head.

"Very well, motherling," she said resignedly, "and,
after all, it would be selfish in me not to let Hugh have
the trial," she added, more brightly.

Nevertheless, the girl looked down at the two small
hands in her lap, and sighed.





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.. _`CHAPTER V`:

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   CHAPTER V

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The next day, Sunday, Hugh, Gerald, and Teddie,
the two latter in high and unrelenting collars,
well smoothed as to hair, attired in well-brushed clothes
and boots of an almost supernatural polish—for Miles,
the faithful, had personally attended their toilet—soberly
and with elaborate care helped each the other over the
boundary fence, intent upon returning, with prompt
courtesy, the call their mother had received from Paul
Charteris.  The three wished to create a favourable
impression upon their whilom friend, and a "decent
get-up," to use Hugh's own words, was of the utmost
importance for producing this desired result.  Hugh,
who had affected a low collar and loose tie, would have
been well satisfied with himself were it not for the
annoying circumstance that his new shoes pinched
horribly, and that they squeaked, being somewhat low
down in the scale of gentlemen's shoes, and bent on
blatantly announcing the fact.

"Confound the things," he said angrily, trying various
modes of locomotion, and finally adopting a mincing step
of airy lightness, which seemed somewhat to pacify his
fretful footgear, albeit he was pinched no whit less severely.

"Confoundedly hot in these high collars," Teddie
grumbled, as he unfolded a snowy handkerchief and
dabbed his moist brow.  Immediately there was wafted
upon the air the scent of lavender.

Hugh and Gerald regarded their brother in some
severity, not unmixed with envy, in that they had neglected
to make this elegant addition to their own toilets.
"By Jove, Teddie," Gerald expostulated, "you must
have literally soused that handkerchief."

"It is a bit damp," Teddie acknowledged composedly,
"Comes in very refreshing."

Pursuing the winding paths in as direct a line as the
topographical possibilities of the wood admitted, they at
length came upon a large lawn that skirted the trees and
lay smooth and green before the shady verandah of the
south side of the house.  Several long, low cane chairs
stood invitingly about the verandah, and upon one of
these, stretched at full length, in utter and complete
comfort, was Paul Charteris, in loose white flannel garb,
a cigar between his lips, a novel in his hand.

He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of welcome
as Gerald, Hugh, and Teddie made their appearance
across the lawn.

"Now, you fellows, just make yourselves comfortable
and cool off," Paul said in amused compassion, as he
marked the heated condition of the trio, and his quick
glance took stock of the unsuitability of their
habiliments.  "I will look up Jackson, and ask for something
to drink."

Hugh, glad to avail himself of the invitation, mincingly
mounted the steps, and sank gratefully into the easiest
chair, the other two likewise seating themselves.

Paul, disappearing for a few moments, quickly returned,
followed by a servant bearing a tray, containing
various sparkling liquids in multifarious bottles.  Over
this good and cooling cheer conversation soon became
easy and natural, Teddie becoming so much himself as
to refer energetically to stand-up collars as a "rotten
invention."

"Look here, Charteris," he said, "perhaps, as you
are alone, you won't mind my taking it off for a bit,"
and he proceeded to unfasten the offending piece of
starched linen, in accordance with his host's warmly
expressed advice, while Hugh surreptitiously slipped his
poor tortured toes from their natural quarters into the
main body of the shoe.

"You don't object to a pipe, Charteris?" Gerald
inquired, producing from his pocket a well-worn briar-root,
and, on Paul's assurance that he often enjoyed one
himself, Hugh and Teddie quickly produced two others
for his edification.

"Hazel received an invitation last night to spend a
week with the Travers," Gerald announced conversationally,
when all four were luxuriously smoking.  "She
is rather bothered about it; she does not care to leave
the mater for so long."

"She could cut the visit short," Paul said, not
unwilling to suggest so pleasing a solution of the difficulty.
"How—er—how would your sister go?" he added,
prefiguring himself and Hazel taking the long drive
together in his dogcart, through the beautiful countryside.

But Gerald's reply quickly extinguished any such
day-dream.  "Oh, young Travers would fetch her in the
trap; that is easy enough," he said carelessly.

"Is that Digby?" Paul asked quickly.

"Yes," Gerald replied, "he is desperately gone on
Hazel—makes an awful idiot of himself."

"How old is he?" Paul asked curtly.

"About two- or three-and-twenty," Teddie broke in.
"He is a decent fellow enough if only he would not
sing."

Paul's innate delicacy would not permit him to ask
that which he longed to know: whether or not that
brown-eyed child, Hazel, reciprocated the feeling of the
importunate Travers.  However, Hugh soon relieved
him on that score.

"Of course, Hazel does not guess what he is up to,"
he said, somewhat scornfully, in no wise trying to hide
his contempt of the laboriously arranged and clumsily
carried out tactics of young Travers.  "How should
she?  None of us are likely to open her eyes.  He only
succeeds in boring her fearfully; she keeps out of his
way whenever she can."

Paul was conscious of a sudden interest, almost
amounting to a liking, for the luckless young man.
"What sort of a fellow is he to look at?" he asked,
readjusting his tie with some complacency.

"Oh, well enough," Hugh returned, to which somewhat
vague description Paul's other guests grunted
agreement.

"Greeky," Hugh went on, for his host's better
understanding, and the subject was dropped, this graphic
portraiture being deemed so eminently exhaustive that
Charteris must be criticising a vivid mental picture of
young Travers, the while he reclined with half-closed
eyes, puffing lazily at his cigar.

"By the way," Paul began presently, turning to Hugh,
"has Mrs. Le Mesurier spoken to you of the idea we
formed?—just a suggestion, you know; you must, of
course, feel at perfect liberty to—er——"

"Yes, thanks, awfully," Hugh replied suavely.  "I'll
turn up to-morrow.  Nine o'clock suit—nine to four?"

For a moment Paul was staggered by such prompt
acceptance of the post and subsequent arrangement of
detail.  "I think ten would suit me better," he said, a
trifle apologetic.  "I like to go in for various modes of
exercise for a couple of hours before beginning work."

"All the same to me," Hugh returned airily.  "Ten
to five, then?"

"What do you say to having no fixed hour for
leaving?" Paul suggested.  "Just turn up at ten every
day, and we can see what work there is to do, and do
it.  You will as often as not get through in an hour or
two."

"That will just suit me," Hugh declared frankly.
"And the salary?"

"Well," Paul said, with hesitancy, "a hundred a
year would—er——"

"Phew," whistled Teddie, resorting to his bescented
handkerchief; "and to think how I have to slave for a
miserable forty!"

"But then, look how distasteful any kind of clerical
work is to me," Hugh said ingenuously, gently
expostulating with the unreasonable Teddie.  "Even one
hour is very real hard work to me; whereas Gerald,
here, positively likes such business.  If you look at
things in their right proportions, you will find that I
could hardly be overpaid, whatever you gave me."

Teddie did not look convinced by his brother's
argument, and Paul, half amused, half dismayed at the
outspoken candour of his secretary-elect, could not but
determine that, whatever it was that filled the fair, curly
head, diplomacy did not number among the gifts of
Hugh Le Mesurier.

When, after some further talk, the young men rose
to take their leave, Paul insisted upon accompanying
his guests on at least part of their homeward way.
Friendly relations were now so far established between
the houses of Earnscleugh and Hazelhurst, that Teddie
strolled with easy grace across the lawn, carrying the
obnoxious collar in his hand, ever and anon waving it
airily in gesticulation in the course of his conversation
with Paul and Gerald; whilst Hugh modestly brought
up the rear, stepping gingerly in bright red socks,
bearing around his neck the plaintive shoes, slung
together by their laces.

Hazel, meanwhile, who had walked with her brothers
to the verge of the estate, had settled herself cosily
upon the carpet of moss with a book, to await their
return.  Curiously enough, a desire to accompany
them never entered the girl's mind, though it had
ever been her habit to join her brothers in their
excursions.  Vivian Charteris had been well accustomed
to the sight of Hazel's little figure among the
tall and lanky forms of the Le Mesurier boys.  Indeed,
he would have sorely missed the bright and gentle
girl, whom he had known intimately from babyhood,
and for whom he entertained a brother's regard.  He
had gloried in the Le Mesurier lungs—more especially
when voiced by the silvery tones of his little,
brown-eyed favourite—echoing through his domain or about
his house.  But Vivian was Vivian, the grave and
serious student, sixteen or seventeen years older than
herself.  Now, a quite unconscious reticence seemed
to withhold the girl, to forbid the old childish freedom.
Paul was almost a stranger to her: for, during the
earliest years of her childhood, he had only spent at
Earnscleugh the brief holidays of the long school-terms.
At the age of eighteen he had entered upon
his college career, visiting either his home or travelling
abroad in the vacations; finally quitting England when
Hazel had attained to her tenth year.  So that, while
familiar with his name, of the actual Paul the girl
knew little.

Hazel sprang to her feet as her quick ear caught
the sounds of footsteps approaching from the direction
of Earnscleugh.  Perching herself upon the fence, she
peered eagerly down the little, twisting, shady pathway
that she well knew led most directly to the house,
presently perceiving Teddie's loose and angular form,
looking somewhat négligé about the neck, while his
collar encircled the crown of his straw hat.  Gerald
next made his appearance round the bend, the
narrow ways being of necessity traversed in
Indian-file order.

"Was Charteris at home?" Hazel called, with all
the vaunted strength of the Le Mesurier lungs, poised
upon the topmost rung, balancing her lithe body,
hands on hip.

"He is here," Teddie called back, and, too late,
Hazel discovered the figure of Paul, following close
upon Gerald, whilst Hugh still brought up the rear
in besocked feet.

Hazel precipitately dismounted from her lofty stand,
her sensitive little face growing pale with dismay at
what she deemed her unmannerly way of dispensing
with the formality of the usual prefix of "Mr.,"
which, however, Paul thoroughly understood: not as
a rude peculiarity in the girl herself—little aristocrat
that she was to her finger-tips—but as natural in the
circumstance of that girl possessing five brothers.

There was the bare possibility in Hazel's mind that
her words had not caught Paul's ear, or, being audible
to him, that the omission had not been remarked.
With this faint hope to buoy her, she held out her
hand to meet Paul's over the fence, the while with
flushed countenance she lifted her eyes, half shy, half
anxious, and endeavoured to read the handsome face
the merry eyes, that seemed laughingly to defy her
scrutiny, whether consciously or unconsciously she
could not determine.

As a matter of fact Paul was perfectly aware of her
embarrassment and its cause, and was much amused.
He was bent upon keeping her in a state of
uncertainty, however, and merely commented upon the
beauty of the day, which mischievous spirit was
hardly in accordance with the young man's usual
attitude towards her.

With a demure response Hazel moved a little away,
soon becoming interested in a cluster of flowers at
her feet, Shepherd's Eye, that seemed to gaze up
at her in blue wonder and sympathy.  She proceeded
to pluck the small, starlike blossoms, her
brothers and Paul meanwhile sitting upon or leaning
against the mossgrown boundary fence, in several and
varied poses of ease and comfort, engaging languidly
in such broken and disjointed conversation as befitted
the heat of the noonday.

"What is the name of that little flower?" Paul's
voice broke in upon Hazel's musing.  He had followed
her unawares, and made as if to take one tiny blue
star from her bunch.

But Hazel pressed upon him the whole miniature
posy, in frank generosity.

"Take them all," she said.  "Are they not sweet?
They are called Shepherd's Eye—they grow mostly
over there, in the meadow."

"Shepherd's Eye!" Paul said, gratefully accepting
the gift.  "But here are red ones, exactly like the blue."

"I call them Sad Shepherd's Eye," she returned.
"They are eyes that must have been weeping bitterly
for hours.  I only care for the happy, blue ones."

"They are prettiest, certainly," Paul rejoined; "but
I should like one or two of the red ones, to remind
me of your pretty fancy.  Let me gather them; you
will make yourself hot and tired."

But Hazel disclaimed all fatigue, and was presently
tying together some of the tiny red blossoms with
a wisp of tough grass.

"When are you two coming?" Gerald called.  "I
say, Charteris, come along home to lunch.  The mater
will be glad to see you."

Paul looked at Hazel.  "May I?" he asked diffidently.
"Mrs. Le Mesurier may——."

"Mother says that the house is always open to you,"
the girl replied in her gracious little way.

Having completed her task, she gave the flowers into
Paul's eager keeping, and proceeded to lead the way
through the shady tracks of Hazelhurst wood, her
brothers affecting to breathe again as they safely went
by the great oak-tree with Hazel still in their midst;
albeit she had cast a lingering look up into its leafy
shade, in passing.

As the significance of the long-drawn sighs caught
Hazel's understanding, she faced them swiftly, and
still keeping step with the four, danced along
backwards, the better to explain away their groundless
fears.

Paul thought he had never seen anything so pretty.

"I never climb trees when I am wearing my white
dress," she said remonstrantly.  "It is the one thing that
makes Mrs. Doidge really cross.  She says it takes
Mattie two hours, every time, to get it up."  And Hazel
looked down at her simple muslin frock with some
pride, in that it should prove to be so important a
factor in the weekly routine of domestic labour.  Having
duly impressed her hearers, the girl faced about and
continued the unbroken march in silence, with pretty,
swinging motion, all her own.

Presently the booming of a gong came to them on
the still air.

"By the way," Gerald said, of a sudden oppressed
with his quick transition from guest to host, "you
will forgive any shortcomings in the meal, won't you,
Charteris?  It is of no use attempting to disguise the
fact that we are living—well, extremely simply, just now."

"You will be all right, Charteris," Teddie chimed
in comfortably.  "You are fed by old Miles on roast
mutton and rice pudding with such a tremendous
amount of ceremony that you are quite deceived into
thinking you are in for a royal feast.  And, after all,
you can always eat up your own dainties when you
get back to your place."

"Talking of Miles's impressive ways," Hugh said
presently, "the mater had to speak to him once—he
was actually serving cabbage round as a separate
course, as if it were asparagus or artichokes.  Oh, and
by the way," he added, "I should advise you not to
accept the coloured fluid he offers.  No one knows
what it is."

Thus warned at all points, the guest was ushered
into the presence of Mrs. Le Mesurier.  The party
soon adjourned to the dining-room, where the fare,
if simple, was most excellently cooked and daintily
served, and Paul found the refined simplicity very
much to his taste, vowing within himself that, with
all his wealth, he would for the future practise such
simplicity himself: in truth, he was inclined to think
the thing could not be overdone.  The trouble would
be to make his housekeeper and butler view the case
in like light—people of their class thought so much
of pomp and show.  Oh, well, let them be, but he would
have his own way when entertaining company.

He did not recall Hugh's caution with regard to
the wine—whether to the butler's dismay or gratification
would be hard to conjecture.  Certain it was that
the guest was the observed of Miles, with no small
amount of interest furtively bestowed, and some palpable
apprehension, as he first sipped the beverage.

Something in the flavour of the vintage rendered
Paul reflective, or mayhap brought to mind Hugh's
words.  For a few moments his countenance was somewhat
blank of expression, then, with a slight gasp, he
heroically raised the glass to his lips and drained its
contents.  The next minute the old serving-man was
beside him, eager, tremulous, with the fateful decanter
poised for discharging.

Paul's fortitude gave way.  "No more, thank you,
Miles," he murmured hurriedly.  "I must not take
more than one glass," he added confidentially, eyeing
the decanter with solemn conviction; "that is a
full-bodied wine."

"Yes, sir," returned the delighted Miles, "and between
you and me, sir, it is not what you would call an
expensive wine, either.  My mistress has better in the
cellar, but I had not time to get it up," he murmured
in pseudo-apology, for he deemed the vintage good
enough as a luncheon beverage for any gentleman, old
or young.

Paul nodded response, and asked for water.

The meal proceeded merrily enough when the boys
had ceased to choke over the incident of the wine.
Happily they were eating fish, so that Miles was in
blissful ignorance as to the real cause of their unwonted
distress, sternly rebuking his fellow-servants for the
careless way in which the food had been prepared as he sat,
half an hour later, at his own dinner in the servants' hall.





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.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

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   CHAPTER VI

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After luncheon the party adjourned to the woods,
Helen promising the young people that she
would join them later, and suggesting that tea should
be served in the open air at four o'clock.

The Le Mesurier boys composed themselves to rest
during the heat of the early afternoon, and ranged
themselves each according to his idea of comfort.  They
chose the spot where Hazel was wont to hold her court
of feathery and furry subjects; for, while the trees were
sufficiently thick to afford a bountiful shade, there was
a commodity of space in which to stretch long limbs,
besides the pleasing circumstance that the carpet of
last year's leaves was soft and springy, whilst the spicy
odour of fir-cones and pine-needles proved grateful to
the nostril and conducive to slumber.

Paul Charteris felt no desire to follow their example;
probably Hazel would settle herself at too great a
distance, and become lost in her book.  Neither did
he wish to close his eyes, for the real was even more
charming than the imaginary Hazel.  So, marking that
she, too, seemed in no wise disposed for idleness—for
she was flitting hither and thither among the trees in
restless but evident enjoyment, plucking a flower,
cooing to a wood-pigeon, extricating with deft tenderness
two creeping plants one from the other, giving to
each a fresh start in its race upon the tree-trunk to
which they clung—he begged to be taken to the old
oak-tree, the wood-nymph's home, to have its many
beauties expounded to him.  Accordingly the two,
unnoticed by the napping Le Mesurier boys, set forth
at so goodly a pace that at length Paul cried out in
remonstrance, fearful lest such business-like locomotion
should see them back to the starting-point within the
space of a few minutes.

"Are you so hot?" Hazel asked pitifully.  "How
thoughtless of me!  But I am quite cool—feel," and,
craning her slender neck towards him, she tilted her
head, that he might the more readily touch her soft
cheek and thereby prove the truth of her assertion.

And Paul, nothing loth, delicately stroked the pink
cheek once down to the pretty chin; nor durst he
linger in the delicious contact, for the girl's spontaneity,
bespeaking as it did liking for and trust in himself,
however unconsciously bestowed, was as sweet as it was
precious to the young man, and woe be to him if word
or action of his should startle her voluntary friendship,
should cause her to shrink within herself, away from
him.  Unspeakable happiness might one day be his,
if he possessed his soul in patience, and fostered the
pretty trust that might daily, all unknowingly, draw
nearer, cling closer, till time should ripen friendship
into a sweet consciousness, and he might pluck the
beauteous flower and wear it for all eternity within
his breast.  In the meantime he would gratefully,
thankfully, sun himself in her esteem.

"Beautifully cool," he murmured slowly.  "But do
not blame yourself," he went on.  "I am not uncomfortably
warm—only—it is rather a nice little walk—that
is to say, I do not often have you to myself; I
don't want to get back too soon."

"You find it companionable, just we two by
ourselves," Hazel said ingenuously, by way of making
explanation to the young man of his own hardly
comprehended reasons for enjoyment.

"Yes," Paul said demurely, "I find it companionable."

"Thank you," Hazel returned politely.  "I like it,
too; though I am never happier than when I have all
the five boys roaming about with me," she added, with
blunt but perfect truth.  "I suppose you don't
remember much of Cecil and Guy?"

"I remember them perfectly," Paul averred.  "Is it
long since you saw them?"

"We have not seen Cecil for years—India is so far,"
she answered with a little sigh; "but Guy comes to
Hazelhurst now and again for a day or two, once in
two months or so.  He is due now," she continued,
"overdue—not having been here for nine weeks.  It
would be very convenient if he came just now—for
money, you know.  He always gives me money—generally
two or three pounds—once as many as five.  You
see," she added, "I shall be obliged to spend that
eightpence to-morrow."

"At what hour do you intend to—er—to go
shopping?" Paul inquired eagerly.  "I was wondering
whether I might escort you, and help you to carry
the—the parcels, you know."

Hazel laughed merrily.  "Eightpence will only just
buy a couple of peaches," she explained.  "Perhaps
only one, if they have gone back to sixpence each;
and the fruiterer never lets me carry even that.  He
sends a man and a cart all this way, with it or them
in a basket."

"But if I were with you," he protested, with much
earnestness, "he would let me take it."

"I doubt it," Hazel said, still dimpling, "unless you
disguised yourself beforehand.  This is the tree," she
broke off.  "Come here—stand just so—now look up:
that great fork, as you see, forms a broad, comfortable
seat, the main trunk being its back.  It is my
house-place; the only really commodious apartment;
and either of the great branches constitutes a couch,
though the one on the left is the more comfortable.
Higher up—stand a little more so—there are some
snug little retreats, though I rarely sit there, as they
are only the attics.  I go up occasionally to see that
no horrible spider is lurking about, but not to stay;
for they are rather cramped and, as you see, in places
the roof leaks and the shade is rather glaring.  So I
just get through my household duties as quickly as
possible with that twig brush that you can see
hanging against the trunk in the house-place, and come
down again to my comfortable chair or couch to
think or read.  On Sundays I hold church to myself
there."

"It is delightful, delicious," Paul averred, twisting
and craning his neck in all the directions she indicated.
"It is—it is heavenly.  And the leaves are so thick
as to give good shelter, even in hard rain," he added.
"Do you ever receive visitors—other, I mean, than
your pet birds and squirrels?"

"Hugh and Teddie come sometimes," she replied.
"They sprawl along the two couches, while I take the
chair.  That is very nice, and perfectly comfortable,
but once or twice they have all five wanted to come—so
that three of them had to sit in the attics.  Now,
you see, even if they can manage to settle themselves
fairly comfortably, it spoils the ease of those below to
have them sitting up there, as their legs get rather
in the way, swinging right down into the house-place,
you know; for there are no couches in the attics, only
broken-down chairs, so to say."

"The chair in the house-place looks wide enough for
two," Paul observed consideringly.

"Ye—es," Hazel rejoined dubiously, "but it is not:
the fork cramps you."

As the two sauntered back to the spot where the
Le Mesurier boys had seemingly encamped for the
remainder of the day, Mrs. Le Mesurier was entertaining
a guest at Hazelhurst in the person of Mr. Hamilton,
Teddie's late employer.

"I hope, madam, that in giving myself the pleasure
of calling upon you, I have not taken too great a
liberty," the courtly, elderly gentleman was saying.
"My excuse must be my great liking for that
young—that boy of yours, whom I am very eager to see
re-established in my office, in pursuance of his former
duties there."

"But, my dear sir," Helen interposed, cautioningly,
"do you think it wise?  That young man, who is, as
I understand from my son, nicknamed Carrots——"

"Carrots is gone, madam," her guest interposed with
a somewhat grim smile.  "For months past I only
awaited a good and fair excuse for discharging him,
which that young—which your son's behaviour, madam,
scarcely afforded me."  Here Mr. Hamilton coughed,
to hide another and far more genial smile.  "Unfortunately
for all concerned," he continued, "Samuel Smith
was a most exemplary clerk, business-like"—Helen
winced—"discreet, punctual to his work, good head
for figures."

"My boy was punctual, I trust," Helen murmured,
as Mr. Hamilton paused, feeling that of all this list of
qualifications punctuality was the safest item to mention.

"Once in a blue moon, perhaps," returned Teddie's
superior, "but let that pass.  I like the boy, though
he requires a sharp eye kept upon him, I can assure
you, madam," he continued severely, resolutely
checking a strong tendency on the part of his risible
muscles to twitch.  "He will have to make many
promises of amendment for the future—reasonable
ones enough, as I think you will admit."

"Mr. Hamilton," Helen interrupted gently, though
somewhat proudly, "my son is not asking to be taken
back.  If you wish again to employ him," she added,
after a pause, "I fear you must not hope to wring too
many promises from him.  He is so proud: it is in
the Le Mesurier blood."

Mr. Hamilton shrewdly guessed that the maternal
side also had bestowed the characteristic in question,
but, being a wise man and a just, he saw and admitted
the reasonableness of the gentle rebuff.

"Leave the boy in peace or, taking him, don't nag,
you would say, madam," he replied, good-humouredly
enough.  "Well, I shall have him back if he will come.
I have your permission?"

"I shall be very glad to know him once again safe
with you," Helen replied graciously.  "He is attached
to you, and really felt leaving you.  He bears you no
grudge," she added, "owning that you could not have
acted otherwise than you did, under the circumstances."

"Owned himself to be in the wrong, did he—the
young scamp?  I am glad to hear it.  Attached to me,
is he?  I am fond of the boy myself.  Had a son
once, about his age—something of his spirit," and
Mr. Hamilton turned away toward the window and
blew his nose.

"Your only son?" Helen asked pitifully.

"My only child, ma'am," the old gentleman returned,
somewhat brusquely.

But she was not hurt by his manner, understanding
him.

After further talk of Teddie and other subjects,
Helen asked her guest to accompany her to the woods,
where her daughter and three of her sons would
presently congregate for tea.  So together they set
forth, Mr. Hamilton in open admiration of all they
passed on the way.

In the meanwhile of Gerald, Hugh, and Teddie there
is little to tell, unless it is of their dreams, which, to
judge by the profound peace depicted upon their
countenances, were of a beatific nature.  For nigh
upon two hours had they three lain thus wrapped in
innocent, childlike slumber, the while their sister and
Paul Charteris held low-toned converse together,
somewhat apart; Paul, in his kindly consideration,
deeming it a pity to disturb such blissful tranquillity.

"They had a hot walk this morning, poor fellows!"
he said compassionately.  "Let them rest."

But Miles had no such compunction, when, a while
later, he made preparation for tea, with so much
demonstration and clatter—quite at variance indeed
with his usual noiseless motion and deft skill in the
handling of such rattle- and jingle-begetting articles as
cups, saucers, and spoons—that one by one, or rather
pair by pair, the blue eyes of the Le Mesurier boys
opened and blinked in the light of day, dazed at first
somewhat, and blank as to expression, till by slow
degrees dire wrath blazed up in their depths—direst
in the pair owned by the peppery Teddie—as they fell
upon the callous disturber of their peace, and the
enormity of the offence began to dawn upon their
reviving intellects.

"Hang it all, Miles," Teddie remonstrated, "can't a
fellow close his eyes for five minutes without you
must come and make such an outrageous row; and for
what?" he asked, with a comically injured voice and
mien.  "That we may feast our eyes on that wretched
crockery for two hours and more."

"Yes, Miles," put in Gerald, somewhat more dignified
in his sense of grievance, "whatever possesses you to
bring out all those paraphernalia ten minutes after
luncheon?"

"If it were not for your grey hairs, Miles," added
Hugh severely, "you would just have to cart it all
back again."

Miles chuckled.  He also had indulged in a nap in
this, his one free hour in the week, and knowing of its
pleasures and of the pain of awakening; being, besides,
greatly refreshed, he felt lenient towards his young
masters for what he deemed the mere puerile irritation
that sometimes besets the young on first being roused
from sleep.

"I am arranging the *china*, Mr. Ted," he explained,
with marked emphasis on the word china, in reproof
of the reflection cast upon that valuable earthenware,
"in compliance with my mistress's wish that tea should
be served at four o'clock."

Hazel, who with Paul had been enjoying the foregoing
dialogue, at this juncture interposed.

"You silly boys," she exclaimed, laughing merrily,
"you have all been fast asleep.  And you have had
the narrowest possible escape of being surprised by
a stranger," she added, looking down one of the pathways
leading from the house.  "See, who is it, coming
with mother?"

The whole party followed the direction of her gaze,
to behold their mother accompanied by an elderly
gentleman, inclined to portliness, wearing a short, iron-grey
beard and moustache.  Teddie, rubbing his eyes to
observe the more surely, presently gave vent to a long,
low whistle.

"Great Scott!" he remarked briefly, and rose
uncertainly to his feet.

Slowly the two approached, conversing as they came.
By the time they reached the little party, that had risen
to receive them, Teddie had completely recovered himself,
and, by right of acquaintanceship, advanced to greet
his mother's guest.

"Hallo, Mr. Hamilton, this is a surprise," he said
cordially, holding out a friendly hand.  "I am glad
to see you."

Mr. Hamilton took the proffered hand, and stood
regarding the lanky youth's honest countenance for
some moments before he spoke.

"Thank you, Le Mesurier," he said, with twinkling
eyes; "I hope you won't be less glad when I tell you
what occasions my visit.  The truth is I am shorthanded,
young Smith having left me——"  He paused and
hesitated.

"Is that 'the Lout?'" asked Hazel, who was listening
wide-eyed.  "Oh, Teddie, then you could go back."

"My sister," said Teddie, shortly, formally.  "Hazel,
you should not interrupt."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, turning a pair
of penitent brown eyes on Mr. Hamilton.  "I—I was
so pleased, you know."

"Not at all, my dear young lady," he returned, somewhat
drily, half incensed, half amused, to note that this
lovely girl also, like the mother, seemed to consider all
coaxing and persuading in the matter due and necessary
to the independent Teddie.  "Not at all; but may I
inquire what it was you asked?"

"If 'young Smith' was 'the Lout,'" Hazel replied,
blushing.

"I did not know him by that name," Mr. Hamilton
replied, smiling in spite of himself; "but I dare say it is
the same person—the epithet is not inapposite.  Well,
Le Mesurier," he continued, "what do you say?  Like
another trial, eh?  But, mind, you must keep your
ink-pot in your desk; and there must be no further need of
raw steaks in my office—it is not a butcher's shop, you
know.  Is that a bargain?"

"That's all right," Teddie responded laconically.
"Well, Mr. Hamilton, I'll come back; but there is one
little thing I'd like to mention—a little hint to help to
keep the peace.  If you would not mind being a trifle
more particular in the future as to the society one
works with in your office."

Mr. Hamilton gasped.

"Then that is all right," Teddie said comfortably,
"and I, for my part, will try to keep my temper, which,
to be sure, is a bit hot when roused; though nothing
can be sweeter," he added earnestly, "when people do
their best, in a reasonable sort of way—I don't ask too
much—to please me."

Mr. Hamilton mechanically received a cup of tea from
Hugh's hand, and looked from him to Helen somewhat
helplessly.

"Ted," Helen interposed, a little reproachfully, "you
must expect to take your chance as to companions.
And pray, of what credit is it to you to keep your
temper if it is never tried—if you are never tempted
to lose it?"

"I don't *ask* any credit, mother," her son answered,
smiling affectionately upon her.  "It merely struck me
as a pity, being naturally, as I have said, particularly
sweet, to rouse it unnecessarily."

It was now Helen's turn to look helpless.

"But you will thank Mr. Hamilton for his kind
offer?" she asked, taking the hand as well as the cup
that he brought to the little table, for more tea.

"As to that," Teddie replied genially, "he and I
are good enough friends, and fully understand each
other; don't we?" he added, turning to Mr. Hamilton,
who, his sense of irritation completely subsided, was
looking immensely entertained.

"Yes, yes," he responded warmly, "we are good
friends, my dear boy."

Teddie looked gratified, and, asking to be allowed
to present his two brothers and his friend, Paul Charteris,
who were congregated somewhat in the background,
the conversation became more general.

Hazel, seated near to Mr. Hamilton, took occasion to
study him as closely as politeness would permit.  So
this was the redoubted Mr. Hamilton, Teddie's dreaded
"boss," whom Hazel had held to be the most imposing
of men.  She had once entertained the thought of
addressing a letter to him, in Teddie's behalf, but had
abandoned the idea as too fearful.  So this was he,
this kindly looking elderly man, who from time to time
threw her glances of much benignity and interest, and
who called Teddie his dear boy.  What could Teddie
have been thinking of, to have made of him such a
*bête noire*?  There was, to be sure, at times, a certain
severity about the mouth, but the eyes were always
kind, the girl thought.  If she could but summon the
spirit to engage him in talk concerning her own private
affairs!  Of a surety he would be a most likely person
to help her; for was he not an eminent "City man,"
living in the very thick of that City life of which she,
Hazel, knew so little, yet thought so much?  Perhaps,
even, he was born and bred there, and was as much
at his ease, as much at home in its murky atmosphere,
among its imperial buildings, as she was here, in her
beloved woods.  How wonderful to walk the City,
the dear, grand City, as he did; to wend one's way
through a very labyrinth of courts, alleys, and byways,
never to lose oneself, to know one's whereabouts always,
as she knew the woods, blindfolded!

Hazel's chin was in her hand, her elbow supported
on her knee, and her eyes grew round and deeply
reverential as she lost herself in the contemplation
of this being from another sphere.  The magnetic
influence of her gaze presently drew Mr. Hamilton's
eyes to meet hers, but so gently did he turn, so quietly
did they fall upon her, that the girl was not startled
from her reverie, but continued to gaze in reverence,
whilst an eager questioning grew up in her speaking
eyes.

"You were wishing to say something, my dear?"
he asked kindly, and with a sudden impulsive
tenderness, new to him, he laid a broad hand upon the
girl's brown head.

Hazel hesitated, then glanced about her.  Her
brothers were engaged for the moment in some
discussion together, her mother in interested listening.
Paul Charteris, certainly, was observing herself, and,
being nearest, would catch her words; but she did not
mind Paul: he would not interfere.  She even gave
him a little smile—an invitation to attend, should he
care to do so.

"I know that you do not keep lady clerks," she
began, with gentle, confidential eagerness, "but have
you ever thought of changing your mind?"

Mr. Hamilton looked his amazement.

"I should like to be one very much," she continued,
"most of all yours; and I was wondering whether,
supposing you could get two good, serviceable clerks
from the same house—people that you knew something
of and could rely upon—it would not be worth your
while to alter your rule and have a lady."

Mr. Hamilton's eyes encountered those of Paul
Charteris for one moment—a moment charged with
sympathy, pregnant with feeling—and both men
endeavoured to conceal their amusement by pulling at
their moustaches.

"Do I understand that by 'two serviceable clerks'
you refer to yourself and your brother Edward?"
asked Mr. Hamilton, when he had sufficiently recovered
himself.

"Yes," Hazel replied cheerfully.  "I am much more
business-like than I appear—Teddie you already know.
I am not saying that the advantage would be all on
your side," she went on, "only, naturally I like to think
of you first.  The advantage to me would be very
great; indeed, if you don't take me, I am afraid I shall
have to give up the idea altogether, because mother
is very particular in her wish that I should not travel or
walk alone.  Now this arrangement"—and the girl made
an airy gesture with her hand in her brother's
direction—"would give me Teddie's company from door to door;
and if on occasion, say a press of work, he could not
take me to lunch, you would see that another clerk
went with me, wouldn't you?" and she looked to Paul
for sympathy in so congenial a plan.

"I certainly should be very much tempted to make
an exception to my rule, if by doing so you would
honour me by coming daily to my office," Mr. Hamilton
responded gallantly; "but, my dear young lady, with
all these brothers, there cannot be the slightest necessity
for——"

"Oh, no necessity," Hazel interposed.  "Just for
pocket-money, you know, and—and to feel that I am
doing my part."

"But," suggested Paul quietly, "is it not the part
of an only and much-beloved daughter to stay at home,
to be a companion to her mother, and to make home a
bright and happy place for the workers to come to?"

"I should not be much with mother, certainly," Hazel
said reflectively; "but, as to the boys, why, I should be
home when they were."

"Apart from the—er—inadvisability on several
scores," Mr. Hamilton resumed, smiling kindly at the
girl, "your mother could never spare you, my child;
an only daughter must be an unspeakable treasure—one
that she must always wish to keep near her.
And—pardon me if I seem amused at what I see you
take so seriously—but, it is not conceivable; one cannot
imagine you in the City."

In which sentiment Paul appeared to participate.

"That is what they all say," Hazel rejoined, somewhat
mournfully.  "Well," she added, more cheerfully,
"to stay with her, I suppose, *is* doing something for
mother."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII

.. vspace:: 2

Upon a day—a Tuesday, to be specific—there
passed into the gates of Hazelhurst a smart
trap, drawn at a smart pace by a smart horse, the
smart equipage being impelled by the smart mental
qualifications of Digby Travers, dubbed "Greeky."  The
turn-out was really remarkably smart; the trap
itself, with its polished woodwork and brass appointments,
glistened and shone in the sunlight, whilst the
gleam of the plated harness was reflected in the
glossy coat of the well-groomed quadruped.

Paul Charteris had for the space of a whole hour
waited and watched in the marble hall of Hazelhurst,
his restless pacing only relieved by occasional halts at
the foot of the stairway that led—well, to the rooms
above, and to Hazel's chamber, that numbered, naturally
enough, among the rest.  His vigil began at precisely
one minute to ten, and the ancient grandfather's clock
was even now tremulously clearing its throat with
wheezy, whirring sound, suggestive of asthma,
preparatory to striking eleven.  Truth to tell, it was only
with considerable effort that the clock could strike at
all, its general feebleness being the more marked since
undergoing a very severe operation, not too skilfully
performed, by Teddie Le Mesurier, wherein the whole
of the worn internal mechanism was taken to pieces
and subjected to the hardy treatment—better suited
to the constitution of younger clocks—of oil and
emery-paper, the massage being administered with no light
hand.  Furthermore, there was a strong misgiving in
the minds of all but Teddie himself as to whether there
was not some flaw in the reconstruction of the clock.
But the boy was sensitive upon the point, and easily
hurt, so that it was only by furtive glances in its
direction that the family ever dared to manifest anxiety
when sounds, more dubious than ordinary, seemed to
suggest that each struggle to give expression to the
time of day must surely be the last.

The eleven laboured strokes were just completed
when the sound of wheels fell upon Paul's ear.  He
withdrew his patient gaze from the direction of the
remote sanctum above and turned to look uneasily
through the arched doorway, to see Travers's trap
pull up before it.  At the same moment Hazel appeared
at the head of the staircase, flushed and important,
dragging at an enormous trunk.  Paul sprang to her
aid, and, bracing every muscle for a mighty effort,
nearly overbalanced himself, as the trunk responded
to his exertions with the most unexpected and
discomposing readiness, being in truth of that light
consistency known as wickerwork, and covered with black
leather; nor was it one quarter part full.

"Why, it's nearly empty," he exclaimed in triumphant
tone, for the fact argued well for the shortness of the
proposed visit.

"Nearly empty!" Hazel cried, indignant, "and I
have been nearly an hour packing!  There are two or
three changes of ribbons, and two pairs of shoes, besides
what I am wearing, and my best muslin that has just
been 'got up,' and must not be crushed, Mrs. Doidge
says.  I wonder if you would mind going to the horse's
head.  Digby is waiting to come in," she broke off,
as a prolonged whistle was heard from without.

Digby Travers, shading his eyes from the glare, could
just discern a man's form, which he supposed by its
occupation of trunk-bearer to be that of a servant.
Paul, eager to fulfil the little lady's slightest behest,
safely deposited his burden near the entrance, and
presented himself before the surprised and somewhat
disconcerted Travers.

"I—would you be so very good as to mind the horse
while I look for a servant?" Digby stammered.  "I
have come to take Miss Le Mesurier back with me,"
he added, a suggestion of defiance marking look and
tone as he encountered the nascent hostility of the
other's glance.

Paul felt resentment in that young Travers should
make use of so formal an appellation in naming the
girl, knowing well that for years—from earliest
childhood—the two had been Hazel and Digby to one
another.  The formality was for *him*, then—for *his*
benefit: that he might the more readily comprehend,
once and for all, his exact position toward the Le
Mesurier family in general, and toward Hazel in
particular.  He was to understand that he was not
accounted friend of the family in the astute eyes of
this old and staunch, if somewhat proprietary, ally of
the house of Le Mesurier.  Yet, with complete though
not unnatural inconsistency, Paul in his heart of hearts
knew, and, knowing, owned, that the mention of the girl's
Christian name would have been quite as distasteful to him.

"Why did you not bring a man with you?" he asked,
striving to speak with polite indifference.  "But perhaps
you are not aware how shorthanded Mrs. Le Mesurier
is.  There is only one servant here, old Miles,
and—well, it stands to reason, he is always busy."

Digby stared politely.

"My name is Travers," he said at length, ingenuously;
as who shall say, "Now that I have put aside any
doubt as to my identity, you will be spared the trouble
of making further communication concerning the Le
Mesuriers."  "You are Charteris—Paul Charteris," he
continued.  "I remember your face quite well, though
it is ages since we met.  Thanks, awfully, for looking
to the horse, but I must find Miles to help me up with
that trunk," and he eyed with complacent regard the
black, dome-topped object just discernible in the shadow
of the hall.

"It is very light," Paul returned, not ill pleased to
volunteer the information, "Do you know where
Miles is?" he asked of Hazel, who appeared at that
moment, framed in the great arched doorway—and
a very pretty picture she made.

Digby sprang to her, and Paul groaned inwardly
as he marked the fervour of the young man's greeting,
albeit he found comfort in noting the girl's cool
reception of, and most inadequate response to, the same;
for she withdrew her hand from the devout clasp that
held it, so soon as the orthodox number of moments
to be devoted to that ceremony was ended.  Nor
did her eyes rest upon his face longer than the one
direct look—of Hazel's peculiar directness—that kindly
interest and innate courtesy alike dictated.

"Why didn't you bring some one with you?" she
asked, somewhat severely.  "It is not very polite to
oblige Mr. Charteris to stand in the sun."

"There was the luggage," faltered Digby.  "There
was not much room, you know."

He glanced sheepishly at Paul, but there was
understanding without sympathy to be read in Paul's
countenance; and young Travers inwardly dubbed
this old acquaintance and near neighbour of the Le
Mesuriers, hard and callous of disposition.

"Well, I'll hold the horse," Hazel said, descending
the steps and taking the bridle from Paul's hand, "and
perhaps you two would not mind lifting up the trunk.
It is not so heavy as it looks."

This matter dexterously accomplished, Digby Travers
got to his seat again, expecting Paul to help Hazel
to her allotted place, frankly eager to be gone.  He
was somewhat taken aback when the girl, who had
disappeared for the space of a few moments, returned
with an enormous umbrella of sombre green hue,
which she opened with some difficulty, and proffered
to him with both hands, gravely matter-of-fact.

"I shall not be long," she announced, "but I want
to see mother again before we start, and—and I did
not know Mr. Charteris had called.  You don't mind,
do you?" she added, "It is rather heavy, but the
stick is so tall that you can rest the handle on the
seat beside you if you take your hat off, and, though
ugly, it casts a cool and restful light."

So saying she re-entered the house, followed by
Paul, leaving poor Digby disconsolate beneath an
extensive shade; so extensive, indeed, that though
noonday was approaching and the sun was high in
the heavens, the quadruped also enjoyed the benefit
of it, over its hind quarters, well to its middle.

"Have you been here long?" Hazel asked of her
companion, as the two paused in the hall, at the foot
of the stairway.

The girl's usually bright spirit was clouded for
the moment.  A while since all had been bustle
and excitement—she had made her small plans and
arrangements with much of interest and ardour—had
packed her small wardrobe with a keen sense of
anticipatory pleasure.  There had been something of
the stirring nature of the heroic in yesterday's
farewells to the elongated Monday faces of her brothers;
and her tender solicitude was not unmixed with
youthful elation at the thought that her mother would
miss her right sorely.  Now, of a sudden, all this
seemed changed.  Without doubt or question, she
did not want to go, and the vague consciousness that
Paul did not wish it either, that he too would miss
her, did not tend to lift the girl's despondency; for
she was tender, true, and pure womanly, and, being
so, knew nothing of the malicious joy of that
perversity wherein so many of Eve's daughters delight.

She sank down upon the first stair, rather listlessly,
and looked to Paul for his answer.

"An hour," he said, "when you appeared.  But
Hazel," he added commiseratingly, "you have tired
yourself over all that packing.  Could not one of the
maids have done it?"

"I am not tired, thank you," she answered absently,
"at least, I do not think I am."

Paul did not look satisfied.  The girl was pale,
and the small hands, usually nervous-looking and
energetic, lay limp before her.

"I am sorry," she continued, "I did not know.
Miles could not have known, or he would have sent
us a message.  You must have been very dull."

"I wanted *you*, of course," Paul admitted truthfully,
"but I would not have had you disturbed.  I ought
not to have expected more of your company than
the few minutes you could give me on leave-taking."

So saying, Paul Charteris seated himself beside her
upon the broad, shallow step, and possessed himself
of one of the passive hands.

"What have you been doing?" he asked gently.

Hazel regarded the captive hand, or rather its
prison, but her thoughts were not of it.

"Mr. Charteris," she said, timidly lifting her eyes
to his, as with an effort she decided to speak her
mind, "do you think—would it be very odd, if I sat
behind in the phaeton, with—with the trunk, you
know?  Do you suppose Digby would mind, or think
me very rude?"

"He would have no right to object," Paul answered
warmly, pleased that she had appealed to him.  "If
he annoys you, he cannot expect better treatment."

"But that is my trouble," she explained, disengaging
her hand to take up and fondle a fluffy
ball of a kitten.  "He only annoys me by being too
nice.  So it seems unkind to feel annoyed.  If only
one could sit with one's back to the horse for fear
of draughts and smuts," she went on, "as one would,
with one's back to an engine!  I want to sit so that
he cannot look into my face every time that he says
anything."

Paul hastily removed his eyes from her countenance.
"Just so," he said, "very naturally."  But, though
indignant on the girl's behalf, he felt he could not justly
blame Digby Travers for this.

"And everything he says has two or more meanings,"
Hazel continued impatiently.  "Now, when *you* say, 'Is
it not a glorious day?' you mean: is it not a glorious
day?"  She paused.

"And what does Digby mean?" Paul asked quietly,
the while feeling he should like to demand the answer
from Travers himself.

"I don't quite know," Hazel answered, troubled.
"He seems to think that he and I have reasons for
thinking it much more glorious than other people.
But I must go up to mother," she added, rising, "I
cannot keep him waiting long, and—and I feel better,
now that I have told you."

Left to himself, Paul paced up and down in deep
thought.  Did not Hazel's confidence in him authorise
him to speak to young Travers?  Yet no; Digby
would not admit the authority—would ask a much
greater right than that of a friend—nay, of a mere
acquaintance, as he would probably pronounce Paul,
who in the jealousy of his heart sought to keep others
from the girl's side, to take away from him, Digby
Travers, and from all men other than himself, Paul
Charteris, the natural right of trying for, and the
gladsome chance of obtaining, the affections of Hazel
Le Mesurier.  No, he must let matters take their
course.  He could but advise the girl to cut short her
visit, should she suffer any discomfort more marked
than heretofore.  He would remind her that it was
not incumbent upon her to put up with any discomfort
whatsoever—that she need not consider herself selfish,
or fear that she was wanting in strength to endure,
for wishing to return home, and in acting upon that
wish; for in such wise, he knew, would Hazel take
herself to task: she would resist such weakness, as she
would deem it, with all the power of her strong little
nature—suffering much, that others should not suffer
little, as was her wont.  He would counsel her to tell
her mother of Digby's importunities, should they
become difficult to her own management, or trouble
her unduly.

Soon! ah, soon, he might win the right to shield her
himself—Paul's pulses stirred at the thought, his heart
warmed within him—the right of lover and true knight.
Soon, soon.  As yet she was a trustful, affectionate
child, at an age when a few months only of patient
waiting, of wholesome self-restraint, might see her
blossom into a loving woman, forced thereto by
the very strength and warmth of his unspoken love,
even as a bud expands to a flower in the eloquent
ardour of perpetual and encompassing sunshine, however
mute and unvoiced that sunshine perforce must be.

As he thus mused, Hazel came down again in greatly
recovered spirits; for Helen had guessed more of that
which disturbed her child's peace of mind than the
girl herself could have told her, or had acknowledged
even to herself; and with loving tact had soothed her
as only a mother can.

"Don't stay away longer than you like, dearie," she
had concluded, "and Hazel, you would not wish that
your motherling should not miss you, or that the
boys and Paul should be pleased to have you gone?
They will all be glad to have you back, and will
appreciate you more than ever," she added playfully,
her heart telling her that there was no need of further
appreciation on the part of Mr. Paul Charteris,
Paul had not heard Hazel's light step upon the
stair, so that she reached the hall and stood
confronting him before he knew of her presence.

"I am going now," she said.  "Good-bye."

He took the outstretched hand and looked into the
upturned eyes.

"You have not been troubling for me," she added
anxiously, "about Digby?  He is very nice to me,
and I don't really mind him—I thought I did, but it
was mostly because I did not want to go.  I—I don't
like leaving mother, you know."  So saying, the small
hand wrung his, and withdrew itself.

The two then proceeded together across the threshold
and down the steps; and, if hard upon the little victim,
it was even harder upon him who led her to the
sacrifice.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII

.. vspace:: 2

Comfort, solid comfort, best describes The
Beeches, its inmates, and all appertaining to it
and them.  Solid comfort without luxury, ease without
laziness, happiness without a positively cloying
sweetness.

John Travers was not handsome, but comfortable-looking;
his figure, perhaps, was becoming a thought
too comfortable; but then John Travers was fifty-five,
and plenty had been his lot for nigh upon eightfold
of the proverbial seven years that go to make plenty
a really established fact.  Then, too, he gave way,
perhaps somewhat injudiciously, to a liking for white
waistcoats and rather large and conspicuous watch-chains.

Of Elizabeth Travers, his wife, little need be told in
description, for much is learned of her ways and days
in twenty-four hours.  That she, too, was comfortable
need hardly be said; else John, who was a devoted
husband, would not have been so.  But she was not in
the least too comfortable to be a fitting wife for John
Travers, or the truly motherly mother of his children.
For surely a broad breast is the natural haven for
young heads, when wearied of the very fulness of the
joys of childhood, or stricken with its tragic, if fleeting
griefs.

John and Elizabeth Travers had two sons and two
daughters.  What could be more comfortable than
that?  Is not "two of each" in all good things the very
acme of satisfaction and contentment?  The children
themselves were comfortable, considering their years; for
if ever there is a period more devoted than another to
strange misgivings, fervent hopes, and acute sensibilities,
that period is youth; and none of these characteristics
can be said to be "comfortable" ones.

Digby, their first-born, now twenty-three years of
age, and a student at Oxford, was enjoying the long
vacation under the comfortable parental roof-tree.  Of
Francis, the second son, aged nineteen, was to be
made what is known as a gentleman farmer—an
ever-increasing interest in the somewhat laborious pursuits
of tilling, ploughing, sowing, and harvesting, not to
mention a love of animals, making apparent at a very
early age the bent of the boy's mind.  That he had
not Digby's intellect was obvious to those who knew
both brothers; but that Francis was going to do very
well in his own line was everybody's opinion.  His
enthusiasm for all bucolic pursuits, together with a
keen—no, not a keen; there was nothing keen about
Francis—together with a good, sound judgment of all
things connected with them, was marked.  If his eye
lacked quick observation or keen appreciation, as it
lighted on some matter of interest or beauty, it was
steady, honest, trustworthy, and not without a certain
shrewdness.  And it were hard upon him to criticise
the tendency of lip to part with lip; for there was
nothing of weakness or indecision about the large,
well-cut mouth, which could close firmly enough at such
times when depth of thought or concentration of mind
were required of him.  Rather should the characteristic
be looked upon as the natural consequence of open-air
labour, of a nature that demands more oxygen than can
in reason be expected to find its way to the lungs by
the nasal channel alone; if the fact that to one who
frequently studies the sky for signs of changes of
weather with the long, earnest scrutiny bestowed by
Francis Travers, was not in itself explanation enough
for an ofttimes open mouth.

The daughters, Doris and Phyllis, aged sixteen and
twelve years, were slim, fair-haired maidens.  Doris, the
elder, looked upon life with grave eyes, seeing only its
serious side, and determinedly facing that aspect with
resolute lips and somewhat pale cheeks, quaint and
demure.  Phyllis, on the other hand, while in no way
boisterous—sharing, indeed, in some part her sister's
quietude of mind and demeanour—was rosily cheerful
and a thorough child.  It was quaint Doris's aim to
keep her thus; and odd it was to note the enforcement
of the staid authority which the slender four years of
seniority gave to the girl in the absence of their
mother, or of their governess, Miss Manifold.

Miss Manifold—nicknamed "Sins and Wickedness"
by Hugh and Teddie Le Mesurier—the daughter of a
Lincolnshire squire, long since deceased, was a good
woman, well liked by her two pupils, whose well-being
she had sincerely at heart.  At the present moment she
was absent from The Beeches, being once more returned
into the bosom of her family for the Midsummer
holidays.  This fact, meaning as it did freedom of will
and action, combined with the pleasing circumstance
that Hazel Le Mesurier's impending visit was about to
be realised, brought much rejoicing to the girls; for
even sober Doris was not impervious to the delights of
a few weeks' unrestricted leisure, nor unmindful of the
advantages of living for that short interval without the
eye of supervision upon her every movement.

She and Phyllis were, for the fourth time this
morning, taking a survey of the bedroom that had been
allotted to their girl-guest—moving, changing, and
rearranging articles of furniture or ornament to suit
Hazel's queer taste and odd fancy.  The bed they had
dragged before one of the windows, for Hazel had once
confided to these two friends that she liked nothing
better than to sleep with her head pillowed on the sill;
only that it was not often that bed and sill chanced to
stand in the necessary relative position one to the other.
Also the bed must needs be wide enough to permit
the full stretch of her limbs, when she had twisted
herself to this crosswise position.  She assured Doris and
Phyllis that to gaze up at the stars until you fell asleep
was conducive to the dreaming of the most lovely
dreams, whilst the soft fanning of the summer night-air
proved most pleasant and refreshing.

"And what if it rains?" her breathless auditors
had asked.

"That is nice, too, in its way," Hazel had made
answer.  "But once," she added ruefully, "when I
was sleeping so, I was so sound asleep that it did not
wake me until my hair was drenched, and I had to get
up and rub it with a towel for nearly two hours."

"How your arms must have ached," Doris said,
eyeing the heavy brown mane, half in admiration, half
in pity.

"And I was so sleepy," Hazel continued, "that every
time I stopped to rest my arms a moment I found
myself nodding, with the towel in my lap."

"Didn't you have a bad cold the next day?" Phyllis asked.

"No, I never catch cold," Hazel answered.  "It is
being so much in the open air, I suppose."

The dressing-table, too, was never to block a window
and obscure the view in Hazel's room; and there must
always be flowers upon it.  Having ascertained that
all was to her liking, Phyllis and Doris fared forth to the
garden gate, rightly judging that, had their brother
found Hazel ready to accompany him, the two must
long ere this have made their appearance.

It was a pretty view that stretched away before
The Beeches.  As they stood at the entrance gate,
which faced the road, the girls looked upon a wide,
sunny tract of undulating common ground, ablaze with
yellow gorse.  Trending toward the west in long dark
line was a ridge of fir-trees sharply defined and almost
black against the even blue of the sky, but merging into
soft and softer gradations of consistency and colour on
the wood's southern extremity, its outline finally
well-nigh lost in a mist of feathery larches.  To the east was
a low range of hills with brown, thatched, and red-tiled
cottages and farmhouses dotted at intervals at its base,
whilst a rivulet that flowed past the Travers's estate,
forming indeed the boundary on its right flank, wended
its way in and out, twisting and twining, a white ribbon
shot with sunlight, till lost to sight in the valley.

And there, round the bend came the trap.  Hazel,
perched high, her hands encased in Digby Travers's
thick gloves, was driving, to her own evident delight and
self-importance, having successfully eluded her
companion's practically demonstrated teaching by declaring
that she did not care what was the orthodox way of
manipulating the reins; that she and the horse
understood one another well enough.

Hazel was delighted with her room, and had no
suggestions to offer respecting any change in the
position of its furniture.  Everything was perfect, she
frankly told her gratified friends.  Her quick eye had
lighted upon a tiny escritoire standing in one corner,
and a thought flashed into her mind, an idea as novel
to her as it was pleasing.  She grasped the delightful
idea, seized upon it, and stowed it carefully away in
a corner of her brain, until such time as she should
have leisure to look into the alluring possibilities it
suggested—to cogitate without fear of interruption.

Just now, with very active assistance from Doris and
Phyllis, Hazel was removing the dust of travel from
her person.

When the three girls descended to the dining-room
for luncheon, they found the rest of the family already
there assembled; and Hazel received a warm kiss from
the motherly Mrs. Travers, whilst Mr. Travers took
her right hand, and Francis possessed himself of her
left; Doris and Phyllis hovered about her; Digby
looked on approvingly.  Having been thus duly welcomed
and received into the bosom of the family, Hazel, as the
party seated themselves around the table, addressed
herself to Francis.

"Well, farmer," she said, with *bonne camaraderie*, "and
how are the crops?"

"They are coming on all right," he replied, somewhat
sheepishly.  He liked Hazel; but considered her a terrible
little tease.  She had always laughed at his manner
of walking, declaring that he swayed backwards and
forwards, as a sailor will roll from side to side.

"It comes of always imagining that you are stepping
over ploughed furrows," she told him, "just as a horse
is trained to step high by having obstacles put in
his way."

"And the live stock?" she went on.

"Flourishing, thank you," he returned.

"Hens sitting?" she asked.  "And oh, Francis, did
that baby pig learn to grunt properly, the one that
loved wallowing in the mire?"

But here her hostess claimed the girl's attention, and
Francis settled himself to the business in
hand—luncheon—inwardly resolving to be even with Hazel yet.

The day passed pleasantly enough, resting with books
and work in the shade during the afternoon, walking
through the sunlit meadows when the heat of the day
was subsiding.  In the evening the young folk
entertained each other with music, Hazel singing some quaint
songs in her own way—an adorable little way in the
opinion of Paul Charteris, an opinion shared to-night
most fervently by Digby Travers.

Soon after ten o'clock Hazel found herself alone at
last, with hours before her, supposing she could manage
to keep awake, for meditation upon the scheme that
had come to her at sight of the little writing-table.
Her own room at home did not boast such a convenience,
and it is to be presumed that the publicity
of the position of the few desks and escritoires about
the house had prevented the idea from occurring to
Hazel's mind before.

She would write a story—a thrilling, exciting
story—and make all the money she could possibly want!
Here, all alone in the undisturbed quiet of her own
room, she would write diligently, and her week's visit
might result in half-a-dozen stories for Teddie to take
to some editor!

Hazel was perturbed by no fear that she might lack
talent and ability, but it was not long before she
perceived that she was mistaken in the amount of work
that she could accomplish in so short a time.  She
wisely refrained from installing herself at the desk
that night, thinking that she could not do better in
these first hours, while all was exciting and new in this
plan of work, than get to bed as quickly as possible, and
devote an hour or two to the evolving of a plot, and to the
construction of her first story, before sleep should come
upon her.

So far from thinking it hard to conjure up matter
upon which to base her tale, the difficulty seemed to lie
in the fact that she must perforce write only one at
a time, if she wished to be conscientious and systematic.
All through the washing of her face and hands, and the
brushing of her hair, mechanically performed, her head
was teeming with all manner of stirring incidents, which
rose up in her imagination, refusing to be placed in any
nice order of sequence; inconsistent with one another;
contending together—obviously "copy" for many stories
of widely different natures.

"And then there is my style," the would-be authoress
reflected, as she sank down at length among the pillows.
"I wonder what my style will be: whether I have to
find one—to settle upon one of many—or whether a
particular one will come to me of itself."

And this was as far as Hazel got that first night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

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   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 2

Hazel was awakened next morning by an
unaccustomed sound that seemed for some
time to have penetrated her sleep-wrapped senses,
without rousing them to full consciousness.  She lay
still, and listened with all her ears; but there was no
renewal of the disturbance, and she was about to
compose herself to sleep—the clock upon the
mantel-shelf telling her she might do so for another
half-hour—when the unwonted strains began again.  They
were not those of a donkey braying, nor of a horse
whinnying, nor of a cock crowing, but of a young
man singing.

It was not a very tuneful performance, but it was
most fervently and expressively rendered; and Hazel,
as it dawned upon her that she was the subject of
the morning serenade, hearkened with very mixed
emotions.

"I suppose he *considers* it serenading," she said to
herself; and she experienced a feeling of importance,
intermingled with awe.  "I thought they had gone
out of fashion," she meditated.  "Certainly they have
in England: I suppose Digby's continental trips
have given him foreign notions."

   |  I stand at your window sighing
   |    As the weary hours go by,
   |  And the time is slowly dying
   |

"Horribly," Hazel's reflections broke in.  "Why
don't you hurry up, or get some one to mark it
for you?"

   |  That once too quick did fly.
   |

"What a good thing that he has not a guitar!  It
would make a dreadful jumble.  You need not wail
so, if the pain I have caused you is so exquisite,"
she apostrophised the anguished lover; and scorn took
possession of her.  "If you were a cat, one would
pour water on you.  I am not sure if one would not
be justified in thinking you were a cat," and her eyes
sparkled with fun and mischief.

Despite the foreign notions laid to his charge, the
young man's sense of the fitness of things kept him
from standing long under one window in particular,
even while the beauty of the flowering shrub beneath
the guest-chamber gave excuse for a somewhat lingering
gait in passing; so that it was only now and
again that Hazel caught a connected line or two of
the impassioned refrain; while his sisters, not to
mention his father and mother, were regaled with a
goodly, if not quite with an even share, till Francis
thrust a betousled head from his window and asked
his brother to "stow it," a request which caused the
disconsolate Digby to wander farther from the house,
and to break into fresh melody among the trees that
skirted the lawn.

Hazel had unexpected good fortune, in that the
morning was passed in almost uninterrupted silence;
for, breakfast over, Mr. Travers and his sons furnished
themselves with fishing-tackle and, begging the girls
to join the expedition and witness sport, the party
made their way down to the river side and were soon
ranged along its near bank.  Hazel was not long in
seizing the opportunity thus offered, and was soon
lost in her own reflections.

Her mind was quieter now than last night, when,
in the first hours of possessing the exciting idea of
a scheme of action so congenial to her, all had been
pleasurable turmoil.  Now she could think more
connectedly, could shape her thoughts to some end.  She
wisely resolved to leave style alone—at all events
at first—until she had ascertained for a fact that
the style which came naturally to her was poor.
She would be careful concerning grammar, but she
had always detested the sight of the outside cover of
books upon the subject, and so far as she could
remember, had never opened one.

She set up an imaginary stage in her mind, bringing
her characters one by one to bow before her, and to
ask modestly whether they would please her; what
relations they were to bear one to another; what
influence life upon life.  Then the grouping must be
pleasingly harmonious or disturbingly discordant: there
must be nothing tame nor indifferent about her work.

"We need not be so absolutely dumb," Digby
Travers murmured, and Hazel awoke with a start.
"I'd rather lose all the fish, if catching it can only
be accomplished by not talking to you, or not hearing
you talk."

"Hush," Hazel rejoined.  "The others don't feel
like that, and besides," she added truthfully, "I want
to think."

"Oh, well," the young man returned, in a somewhat
injured tone, "that is another thing, of course"; and
he continued his occupation in gloomy silence, the
while Hazel resumed her thread of cogitation.
Presently she began to realise that she must be simpler
and more methodical in her ideas—less profound.
After all, she was not undertaking the writing of a
book.  Let her conjure up some pretty little story, and
write it carefully and faithfully—perhaps the pathos
and the humour would take care of themselves.

That night, in the seclusion of her own room, she
set to work, in a fever of energy and fervent purpose.
She had gone upstairs at ten, but it was nigh upon
one o'clock when the girl at length extinguished her
light and laid her down to rest.  Even then sleep
did not come to her quickly, for her brain was
thoroughly roused and excited.

Three evenings devoted to this work sufficed to
complete her story, and on the fourth, after carefully
revising her work, she proceeded to write it out neatly,
and the result of her labour was to her own entire
satisfaction.

Anticipating the certainty of having all in readiness
before she slept, she had, during the day, addressed
a letter to Teddie asking him to meet her in town
next morning, which epistle she directed to his lodging;
for she felt the urgency of completing all such
arrangements from her friends' house, wishing as she
did to keep all secret until such time as she could
ask for sympathy in her disappointment, or for
congratulations in her success.

She had little difficulty in gaining the consent of
Mrs. Travers to this expedition.  She did not deem
it necessary to take her kind hostess wholly into her
confidence: Mrs. Travers was satisfied with the girl's
assurance that her mother would not object to what
she was about to do, provided Teddie was with her,
and good-naturedly acquiesced in her entreaty that
she might be allowed to keep her little secret from
every one but the brother, whose aid was essential in
the completion of her business.

The following day, immediately after the morning
meal, hugging her precious manuscript, she was driven
to the station in the company of the four young
Traverses, all of whom warmly insisted upon seeing
her off.  The frame of mind into which these four
friends had been thrown, owing to her unwonted
demeanour and most mysterious silence concerning
this expedition, may be easily imagined.  Doris and
Phyllis were openly and frankly curious, with that
feminine curiosity that knows no concealment; nor did
they cease in their endeavours to worm Hazel's secret
from her, resorting at length to stratagem, in the hope
that the girl, if caught for a moment off her guard,
might yet be led into revealing the cause of her mission.

"Teddie will meet this train," was all she would say,
"and perhaps you will be kind enough to meet the one
arriving here at 3.50," and she turned to the taciturn
Digby.

Digby Travers was much more to be pitied than
either his sisters or Francis: the latter being genuinely
amused, and inclined to chaff Hazel, nor was he troubled
one whit with the restless curiosity that beset the girls,
or the sense of grievance that lurked in the bosom
of his brother.  For Digby felt himself to be deeply
injured.  It is true that he had not, like the others,
deliberately asked Hazel to tell him her reason for
running up to town: he would not urge her to confide
in him, but he was hurt that she did not volunteer
the explanation of her movements, at all events to
him, even if she wished the matter to remain secret
from the others.  Hazel was partially aware of the
state of his feelings, and looked to see him brighten
at her proposal, but the gloom did not lift from Digby's
countenance.

"As you like," he made answer, with would-be
nonchalance.  "Either I or Francis—or the man, if we
are prevented."

And then Hazel's eyes were opened, figuratively and
actually, and she gazed upon him for some moments
in mute wonder and some little distress.  While he
spoke and acted like the Digby she had known so
long, her suspicions were not aroused, her mind being
fully occupied with managing him—smoothing the little
difficulties that his importunities caused her, keeping
him at arm's length instinctively, all unconscious that
she was doing so, or that there was any need to do
so.  But now the situation began to dawn upon her.
While he remained attentive to all her little needs and
wishes, displaying an odd admixture of slavish devotion
and proprietary authority, such as had characterised
his attitude towards her so long as she could
remember—for even the rough schoolboy had lorded it over
the very small maiden—she had taken it all as a matter
of course—as Digby's "way."  For tenderness, shame-faced
at first, had crept in so imperceptibly, so gradually
supplanting the old rough-and-ready affection; and
the old boyish, somewhat overbearing and dictatorial
manner had by such gentle degrees given place to
another sort of proprietariness, that these things seemed
to have grown with his growth; and the girl, beyond
an occasional sense of annoyance at such times, when
Digby appeared rather trying and more difficult to
manage than of yore, had never given the matter a
second thought.  But now, with this abrupt change of
front, this veering round, so to say, from eager and
solicitous attention to a poorly assumed indifference,
manifestly born of a certain recklessness and of deeply
felt resentment against herself, a horrible suggestion
presented itself to the girl's mind, and she looked at
Digby Travers in wide-eyed dismay.

"I believe he is beginning to be a sort of lover,"
she said to herself, and her heart beat a little faster.

She reflected upon this new problem at her ease,
after she had been safely bestowed in a first-class
compartment with ladies, of whom Digby had inquired
their destination, committing Hazel to their charge.

Many little incidents recurred to her mind, that had
puzzled her at the time, but now seemed to explain
themselves with unmistakable conviction.

"He must not be allowed to propose," for, strange
and bewildering as it seemed to the girl, yet, assuming
him to be a lover, that was the young man's end and
aim—"to propose: it would be too terrible."  Besides,
he had no right to do so; Hazel must save him from
himself—he was deceiving himself: he was not a proper
lover, a real lover.  It was too absurd.  She almost
laughed aloud at the absurdity of it.  Intuitively her
thoughts turned to Paul for help.  The next moment
the girl had shrunk within herself—her face aflame.
The only place in the whole world that presented
itself to her imagination was her mother's shoulder;
but she was all unconscious that it was from Paul
she desired to hide her face.

Presently she grew more collected, and took herself
to task.  She told herself that all her good sense
and wisest judgment must be brought to bear upon
the subject.  She did not think she should trouble
her mother: she might conceivably confide in Teddie,
if she found it expedient to do so, but certainly, oh
certainly, in no one else.  And perhaps, after all,
she could manage unaided; perhaps some coldly
proffered hints would bring Digby to his senses.  Even
now she believed she must be mistaken—it was so
preposterous, this new idea.

In the meantime she must set herself resolutely to
put the thing out of her mind.  Only so could she
attend properly to the business in hand.  She unfolded
the manuscript, re-read it, and found that she was still
satisfied with it, although the details of the story began
to pall a little, as was natural.

As she finished reviewing the precious document the
train drew up in Paddington Station, and there upon
the platform, trying hard not to look interested, stood
Teddie.

Hazel's eyes lighted on him instantly.  Eagerly,
almost tremulously, she once more unfolded the manuscript,
and, springing from the carriage, ran to his side.

"It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was
Won,'" she announced breathlessly to her astonished
brother, and forthwith began to read.

"What is?" Teddie asked, bluntly interrupting her.

"Why, the story," she answered, for the moment
confounded by her auditor's lack of sympathy and
appreciation.  "Didn't you know?  I have written a
story," and she was about to proceed with the narrative,
when he again interposed.

"I know nothing," he said with an injured air, "but
that you wanted me to meet this train, and did not give
me time to say I could not; it was dashed inconvenient,
I can tell you."

For a moment the girl's ardour was damped.

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, "but I
wanted to take it at once to an editor.  I had to be
quick, while I was at the Traverses, as I could not
take it from home without confiding in mother, and
it is a surprise for her."

Her bright face clouded, and she regarded her brother
wistfully.  "Is it very inconvenient?" she asked.

Teddie's generous young heart was touched.  "Oh,
it is all right," he answered gruffly.  "Let us hear it."

Hazel, nothing loth, began once more as the two
strolled down the platform, hardly pausing, in her
absorbed interest, as she handed her ticket to the
amused collector.

Teddie, though gradually becoming fired with something
of her enthusiasm, was hardly yet so engrossed but
that he had sufficient sense left of his surroundings
to be aware of the unsuitability of the place for either
reading aloud or listening.  He therefore guided the
unconscious girl, without again interrupting her, to a
waiting-room, which he noted with satisfaction was
empty.  Here the two ensconced themselves, and Hazel
read on to the finish, Teddie hearkening with all his
ears; nor did he once remove his eyes from her face,
where a bright spot of colour, born of excitement,
was glowing on either cheek.

"That is the end," she announced triumphantly.
"What do you think of it?"

"Jolly good," Teddie declared with gratifying warmth.
"Come on," he added, springing to his feet; "let us get
a cab."

"A cab?  Oh, Teddie, ought we to?" she asked
timorously.  "What made you think of it?"

For all answer Teddie led the way from the station,
hailed a passing hansom, and helped her into it.

"Don't you see?" he explained presently, after
directing the man through the trap.  "Don't you see
that the story will pay you again and again for a cab?"

And as they bowled along in silent enjoyment, Hazel
could not but marvel upon the rapidity of the change
that prosperity, through authorship, had wrought upon
her life.

"Who are we taking it to?" she asked presently.

"A fellow I know of," Teddie replied.  "Or rather,
two fellows, Langham and Fielding.  A friend of mine
got a story taken by them not half so good as this."

"I am glad I asked you to help me," Hazel returned
gratefully.  "I only hope it won't matter very much
taking you from your work, you know."

"Say no more about that," Teddie responded
complacently.  "It was a bit awkward, but how was I to
know that it was all for such a good purpose?  Here
we are," he added, as the cab drew up before a building,
and Hazel, timidly lifting her eyes, read in gold letters
upon the window-pane, "Messrs. Langham & Fielding,
Publishers."

They entered the building, and found themselves in a
large, bare place that looked to their inexperienced eyes
to be a combination of book-warehouse, office, and shop,
for new books were stacked upon shelves all round
the apartment; parcels of all sizes were piled upon
the floor, among which, in an adjacent corner, a man
in a leather apron was busy sorting.  Some clerkly
looking young men sat or stood at high desks, whilst
a long counter ran down the room, rather to one side,
which an office-lad seemed to be engaged in polishing.

A fellow-feeling for the clerks, a wish not to disturb
them in their arduous tasks, made Teddie Le Mesurier
turn to the boy.

"This lady," he said, intimating Hazel, who trembled
slightly, "wishes to see one of your principals—the
editor of the —— Magazine, if possible."

"Who is it from?" inquired the office-boy mechanically,
as, without a vestige of expression, his gaze
seemed to fix itself on Teddie's left ear.

Hazel looked blank.  "Who is it from?" she reiterated,
at a loss.

"Now look here," said Teddie angrily, "none of
your office gibberish.  Just take up my card and
say——"

At this juncture a pleasant-faced clerk stepped
forward.  "Get back to your work, Tommie," he said
briskly, and he turned to the pair.  "What can I do
for you?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

Teddie repeated his formula and handed the young
man his card.  "We are on the lady's errand," he
explained, "but she has no card," and Hazel felt
mortified, she scarcely knew why; but it seemed so
terribly young not to possess cards, although she had
never before felt the lack.

"Is it an appointment?" asked the clerk.  "Will
your business be known?"

"No," Teddie returned stoutly, "but there must be a
beginning, you know.  We wish to submit a manuscript."

The young man left them, to reappear in a few
moments.

"The editor will see you at once," he informed
them.  "Please step this way."

He led them up a flight of stairs, and, showing them
into a room, closed the door behind them.  It was
large and comfortably furnished, with more of the
private library than office about it.  The only occupant,
a tall, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age,
rose to receive them, tendering Hazel a chair near his
own desk, the while Teddie seated himself somewhat
in the background.

"I wish to submit a manuscript which I think you
will find very suitable for the —— Magazine," Hazel
began, with an easy confidence and graciousness of
manner that generally proved very pleasing from the
little lady.  "Are you Mr. Langham or Mr. Fielding?"

"My name is Charles Langham," he answered,
bowing, a slight smile relaxing his somewhat grave
features.  "It is a short story, I presume?"

"Yes," Hazel returned.  "My brother Edward,"
intimating Teddie, who looked very much at home,
sitting well forward in his chair, his stick between his
knees, his chin resting upon its knob, "has known you
to take a story, not nearly so good, he says."

"Not half, by Jove!" put in Teddie.

"You would not like to read it now?" suggested
Hazel.  "It would not take you long."

"I think not," Mr. Langham replied.  "You see,
that is not our usual way; but if you will leave it
with me, I will place it in the hands of our reader,
who will give me his report."

"Yes, I see," Hazel said, a trifle disappointed.

"You don't think you could make a concession for
once?" asked Teddie.

"I think not," Mr. Langham repeated, pulling at his
moustache.  "It would be very irregular."

"Of course," responded Teddie politely.  "You see,
Hazel, that is what readers are for: to save the editors
the trouble and loss of time incurred in reading a lot
of unacceptable rubbish."

"And Mr. Langham cannot know that mine is not
rubbish," Hazel rejoined, wishing to be reasonable.  "It
is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'"
she continued, turning to the editor.  "The hero goes
to the front, and there is a tremendous battle, which I
think I have succeeded in making very realistic."

"Stunning," put in Teddie.

"And then," she resumed, waxing eloquent in her
theme, "afterwards, upon the battlefield, when he is
lying wounded in the moonlight, a fearful vision rises
before his eyes."

"Blood-curdling," remarked Teddie, *sotto voce*.

"But it is only his delirium that distorts things and
makes them fearful.  In reality it is his mother."

Mr. Langham did his utmost to appear properly
interested, and endeavoured to keep his countenance,
wherein he was only partially successful.  It was a
delightful pair, he thought: this handsome young
fellow and lovely, dainty girl.  And, busy as he was,
he made no move to hurry Hazel.  The girl's
spontaneity was refreshing, her ardour and evident
good faith in her attempt at authorship were touching
to a man of his sympathetic and benevolent nature.
He was quite anxious not to precipitate their departure
by word or sign.

"I know I must not keep you," Hazel concluded,
rising from her seat; "but you will be glad to hear
that it all ends peacefully and happily, and his great
bravery is fully recognised."

"That is very satisfactory," Mr. Langham returned,
rising also.  "Stories should always end happily, I
think."

"I think so, too," Hazel returned.  "Good-bye," she
added, giving him her hand.  "I hope we have not
kept you too long."

Mr. Langham released the hand with something of
reluctance, and preceded his visitors to the door.  He
shook hands with Teddie, and was somewhat astonished
at the warmth of the young man's grasp.

"Yes," Teddie agreed, "I hope we have not kept you
too long."  And the pair passed out.

"Do you know"—and Hazel's head reappeared as
Mr. Langham was about to close the door—"do you
know, before I saw you," she said laughing, "I had
quite made up my mind not to speak at all—except,
of course, to answer any questions you might put to
me.  I thought it would be the business-like, correct
way; and, besides, I had a sort of notion that editors
were rather terrible—as a class," she added hastily,
fearful of wounding the sensibility of the editor in
question.  "Even now I cannot help thinking you are
an exception.  Good-bye."  And she was gone.

Charles Langham, this exception to his kind, stood
listening to the sound of their dying footsteps, then
turned to his interrupted work with a smile and a
sigh.

"And now," said Teddie, looking at his watch, "I
must take you back to the station and get on to the
office."

Hazel had intended to spend the whole morning
with her brother, and probably lunch with him, before
she returned to the Traverses: hence her injunctions to
Digby to meet her, or cause her to be met, by the 3.50
train.  She was, therefore, disappointed; but of this she
would let nothing appear.  Teddie had already given
enough, and too much, of his time at so short a notice.

"Very well," she said cheerfully.  "And Teddie—I
know it is all right—I shall get the money for my
story in time—but, as we have not got it yet, had not
it perhaps better be an omnibus?"

To this economical arrangement Teddie—himself less
glowingly optimistic than he had been a short while
since—agreed.  At the station they found, somewhat
to their dismay, that there was no train for a couple
of hours or so—it was now but little past eleven.

Teddie considered the situation.  "Well," he said,
"you won't get home till past two o'clock.  I had
better get you some buns and leave you in the
waiting-room.  I am awfully sorry, but it cannot be helped.
Do you think you will be all right?"

"Perfectly," Hazel returned brightly.

Teddie left her, to return a few minutes later armed
with a magazine, and a paper bag containing twelve
halfpenny buns.

Left to herself, Hazel began to read; but her mind
being preoccupied, she found the stories and jokes
uninteresting, and presently fell a-thinking.  Was it not
near here that her mother's uncle, Percival Desborough,
lived?  Why should she not utilise the time that must
perforce elapse before she could embark upon her
return journey by visiting him?  Something within
her urged her to go, though the prospect was
somewhat terrifying.  She had heard so much of this
uncle's hardness of heart and violence of temper.
Poor, lonely old man! how many a time had she
wished to see him and judge for herself if he were so
hopelessly unamiable and unapproachable as all who
knew him averred—all but her mother, who had never
lost the belief that there was a soft spot somewhere
in the poor, selfish old man's heart.

She had plenty of time, for it would be just as well
to take the train by which the Traverses would expect
her to arrive—the one after that which Teddie had
supposed she would take.

Setting indecision aside, Hazel seized the bag of
buns and left the station.  Following the direction of
a policeman, and later of a friendly inclined milkman,
she found the house easily, and, though her hand
trembled a little, she beat a brave tattoo upon the
door.  Her knock was answered by an imposing
footman, who appeared to do his utmost not to show
surprise at sight of Hazel.

"Is my uncle, Mr. Percival Desborough, at home?"
she inquired, in as steady a voice as she could command.

The servant answered in the affirmative, and Hazel
walked in.  A few moments later she heard herself
announced, slowly, distinctly, and most unmistakably:
"Miss Le Mesurier!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER X`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X

.. vspace:: 2

Hazel entered her great-uncle's library with
beating heart indeed, but with no outward
show of fear or trepidation.  It was a large room,
furnished in good, if somewhat ponderous taste.
Books lined the oak-panelled walls from ceiling to
floor; the window curtains and other hangings were
for the most part of a heavy, sombrous, red colour,
harmonising well with the rich, though subdued tints
of the deep-piled carpet and oak furniture, nearly
black with age.  The many windows, in all sorts of
unexpected recesses, though they admitted light none
too freely, being either of stained glass or otherwise
darkened with drapery, saved the room from positive
gloom, more especially when the eye had become
accustomed to the dusky conditions, as doubtless
was the eye of Percival Desborough.  He turned in
his chair with a groan and scrutinised the girlish
form that stood motionless by the door, waiting till
her sight should serve her; for, after the glare of the
white pavement without, she was at first well-nigh
blinded.

"What do you want?" he asked, ungraciously
enough.  It was the same question he had asked of
the girl's mother some years since, and practically
the last words he had spoken to her or her family.

Hazel turned her head in the direction whence the
voice proceeded.  "I want to see you," she answered,
"only it is so very dark."

"And why do you want to see me?" he returned
brusquely.  "Have you come to ask for money?"

"Oh no," Hazel replied, advancing swiftly now,
and holding out her hand.  "And please don't begin
by being disagreeable," she added pleadingly—"at all
events, not before we have even shaken hands; I don't
want to feel I cannot shake hands with you—as you
have made many of us feel, particularly as I had
made up my mind to start fair."

The old man took the proffered hand almost before he
knew what he was about.  He was slightly taken aback.

"To start fair!" he repeated, somewhat vacantly.

"You see," Hazel continued, drawing up a low
chair, and seating herself in friendly proximity to
her august relative, "I have heard of you all my life
as being so unapproachable and—and even rude,
sometimes, if you don't mind my telling you so.
But mother says you were not always like that.  She
says that when she was a girl you were fond of her
and very kind to her.  So for years I have felt
convinced that your—your manners were chiefly owing
to—to loneliness and gout."  For the first time Hazel
allowed her glance to rest pitifully upon the poor,
bandaged foot, that she was careful not to touch.
"Which must be a very terrible combination," she
added sympathetically.

"If you have come here to pity me, the sooner
you leave the better," he answered irascibly, a very
paroxysm of twinges rendering civil speech for the
moment an impossibility.

Hazel saw him wince, and understood.

"Oh, I have not," she returned gently.  "At least,
I can keep it to myself.  I know how annoying pity
can be in certain moods.  But I hoped I might amuse
and interest you," she added wistfully, "almost before
you knew that such a thing was possible, by calling
upon you and giving you all the family news."

Mr. Desborough moved uneasily in his chair.  "I
don't want to hear anything about them—not a word,
do you hear?"

"Don't you?" said Hazel, and she sighed.  "Are
you sure?"

"Quite sure," he answered savagely.  "I have done
with my niece, with the whole family, and their begging
letters——"

He stopped short, for Hazel, flushing scarlet, then
turning very pale, rose proudly from her seat and
stood confronting him.

"Uncle Percival," she said, her voice vibrating with
anger, "say anything you like of me, and if I cannot
stand it I can go away; but you shall not say a word
against my mother or the boys—you had better not
even mention them in my hearing.  My mother is—well,
never mind, I would rather not discuss her with
you; and my brothers are dear, good fellows, every
one of them, and—and courteous gentlemen, who would
never speak of an absent lady as you have done.  I
want to be tolerant," she added, "but unless you
take it back, unless you retract what you said, I
shall feel obliged to leave you at once."

"Sit down," her uncle rejoined surlily.  "Don't
make such a fuss."

"You take it back; that about—about the letters?"
she demanded eagerly.

"Yes—yes," he answered testily.  "Sit down."

Hazel sat down.  Percival Desborough was surprised
and interested in the novel sensations awakened within
him by the presence of his visitor, this young relative.
He had experienced a feeling of alarm, positive
alarm, at her threat to leave him, though he did not
acknowledge this to himself, or for a moment give
it credence.

"So you wish to be tolerant, do you?" he asked,
after a pause.  His voice was gruff, but Hazel could
detect some kindlier note beneath the gruffness.

"Yes," she made answer.  "I think you might grant
that I am," she added, smiling up at him from her low
seat.  "Now, Teddie would not have stood you for two
minutes—you have not a very nice way of greeting
people, you know.  Your first words, if you had spoken
them to Teddie, would have driven him out of the room
without his answering.  Now, don't you want to hear
why I am up in town?  You would never guess."

"Well?" grunted Uncle Percival, as she paused.

"I have taken a story I have written to a publisher—an
editor, I should say.  I very much want to earn some
money, and I find I can write," she added modestly.
"Teddie met me in town and went with me—I am glad
he did.  He always impresses people so favourably.
And when we got back to the station we found that
I had two hours to wait for a train."

"So he brought you here?" Mr. Desborough inquired.

"Oh no," Hazel replied, in a tone that might imply
that Teddie would not have done so under any
consideration.  "Oh no, he left me in a first-class ladies'
waiting-room—he had to go back to his office, you
know—and while I was sitting there I remembered how
near you were, and how often I had thought that some
day, unknown to any one, I would come to see you and
try to make friends.  Don't you think we might be
friends, you and I?" she added ingenuously.

"What do you want money for?" her uncle inquired,
evasively.

"Just pocket-money," Hazel said.  "I am always
running out of it.  You would not believe how
inconvenient it is.  I am always seeing new ways of earning
some.  I see one to-day—only mother would not let me."

"What do you think of doing?" her uncle asked.
He was becoming interested, and almost amiable—he,
who had been interested in nothing and in no one
but self for years.  He admired this bright, gentle
girl in spite of himself; he was beginning to dread
the moment when she would get up and say she
must go.

"You will laugh," Hazel returned, "but my latest idea
is to be a companion—to you—for so much a week, you
know: that would mean that you could dismiss me, or
that I could leave you, at a week's notice.  If I went
without *any* notice, quite suddenly, I should have to
forgo a week's salary.  But it would never do," she
continued reflectively, "mother would never let me.
She says she must always have me with her.  But it
is a pity.  There is no doubt you need a companion,
and I certainly want money."

"I much prefer living by myself," her uncle replied
brusquely.  "I don't want any companion."

"I think you do," Hazel returned, standing to her
opinion bravely.  "To begin with, look at this room!"

"What of it?" her uncle asked harshly.  "It is a
very good room, well furnished, capacious, comfortable."

But Hazel observed that he was roused, and did not
seem displeased to have some matter to discuss.

"It is dark," she persisted, "and stuffy.  No one could
spend many hours a day in it, as I dare say you do,
without their health and spirits being affected.  Human
beings are like plants: they want light and air," she
added oracularly.  "I know I could not live here and
feel well and happy and—and good tempered"—with
delicate hesitancy.

"What should you propose to do?" Mr. Desborough asked.

"To throw open the windows and drag back some
of the curtains.  May I?  You will find it such an
improvement."

"Mrs. Hodges would be horrified," her uncle returned,
"and rightly.  The sun would fade all pattern from the
valuable carpet."

"But you are more valuable than the carpet," Hazel
pleaded, "and you must not forget that the dark
fades *you*."

At this juncture the footman entered the room to
announce that luncheon was served, in the exact
tone of voice and with the selfsame manner in
which he had announced Hazel.  Then, relaxing the
rigid muscles of his body, the while his face took an
even added look of stoic resolve, he advanced to his
master's side and deferentially offered his arm.  Percival
Desborough regarded the arm with an expression of
dislike, almost of disgust, depicted upon his
hard-featured countenance.  There was nothing personal in
this show of feeling, as Thomas had probably long
ago discovered.

"Must you go through the pain of walking?" asked
Hazel pitifully, quick to note and interpret.  "Won't
you have a tray brought here?"

"I prefer to eat in the dining-room," her uncle
answered shortly, as he got to his feet with a groan
and a half audible word of an exclamatory nature.

But, with all his bad temper, and his sensibilities
rendered ultra-critical, as they were, through pain and
discontent, the poor gentleman could find no real fault
with the way in which Thomas, like some machine of
wonderful mechanism, manoeuvred the movements of
both himself and his master, with an accuracy of
eye-measurement controlling hand and limb, truly amazing,
acquired only by years of practice.  During those years,
however, devoted by the servant to learning how to
satisfy his master, Mr. Desborough had acquired the
habit of expressing his opinions somewhat freely
concerning the stupidity of Thomas in particular and of his
kind in general.  So that even now, albeit Thomas's
manipulation was perfect, and his master, aware of the
fact, would not under any consideration trust the
removal of himself from room to room to any other
than this well-tested servant, he could not refrain from
relieving himself of some of the well-worn and hackneyed
phrases, to the use of which he had accustomed himself
during the years of Thomas's noviciate.  But these
recriminations had always to be voiced well in advance
of the moment to which they were supposed to allude;
else their unreasonableness struck disagreeably upon
even Mr. Desborough himself.

"Should you like my shoulder, or do you prefer
your stick?" Hazel asked, springing to her feet.

"Thank you," her uncle returned drily, "I am
more accustomed to the stick—I had better keep to
it."  But there was a gleam of amusement in his eye,
as he surveyed the shoulder in question, squared for
action.  "You will lunch with me?"

"Thank you," the girl answered.  "I had not thought
of it, but there is certainly plenty of time."

"Where did you intend to lunch?" her uncle
answered when, the laborious journey accomplished,
they were seated at the table.

"Where?" Hazel repeated.  "Oh, in the waiting
room.  Teddie bought me twelve halfpenny buns,
thinking that I was going to take an earlier train,
and that I should not be very late for lunch.  I
should be glad if I might leave them here," she went
on, "It is such a bagful and, however hungry I
am, I can never eat more than two halfpenny buns.
Can you?"

"I don't know," returned her uncle with a grim
smile.  "I have forgotten.  Eh, Thomas?"

Thomas was so startled at this most unusually
amicable address, that he nearly dropped the dish
that he was in the act of handing.

"Teddie knows this—this peculiarity of mine,"
Hazel continued; "but he is always so generous, and
always likes to do things on a large scale.  He said
he knew I should not eat them, but nevertheless he
liked to think I had them."

"I suppose you engaged an outside porter?" her
uncle inquired.

The amazed Thomas had not seen him in so
jocular a vein for years.

Hazel laughed.  "You would like Teddie.  Everyone
does, without being able to help themselves."

"Humph," her uncle ejaculated.

"I could give you another instance of his
large-heartedness," the girl went on.  "It is a good story,
and not long."  She proceeded to relate the incident
of the quarrel with Carrots, its cause, the black eye,
the beefsteak, and of her brother's subsequent
dismissal.  Her uncle endeavoured to hide an interest
that was manifest.

"What is the boy doing now?" he asked gruffly.

"He is back there," she answered.  "Mr. Hamilton
soon afterwards discharged Carrots and came to see
us and took Teddie back."

"What does he get?" her uncle inquired.

"Fifty pounds a year," Hazel replied cheerily, with
some pride.  "He has had a rise lately—it used to
be forty."

Her uncle muttered something in response, then
coughed to cover his words.

"I beg your pardon?" Hazel apologised.

Her uncle evaded the note of interrogation.  "What
do the others earn?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly what Cecil's salary is," she
returned.  "He sends every penny home that he can
afford; he is in India, you know, and it is a good
lot—a couple of hundred, I should imagine.  Guy and
Gerald have each a hundred a year; Gerald gives up
fifty of his, but Guy, who is obliged to dress better,
has to keep seventy-five for himself."  She paused.

"There is another one, isn't there?" Mr. Desborough
asked.

"Yes, Hugh," the devoted sister continued.  "Till
lately he had forty, like Teddie, but now he is getting
a hundred too."

"And what does he contribute?"

"I think seventy or eighty.  You see, he lives at
home."

"How is that?" Mr. Desborough inquired sharply.

"He is a private secretary to Paul Charteris.  You
have heard of him, I suppose?  His ground adjoins
ours."

"Paul?" repeated her uncle.  "Paul?  That was
not the name, surely?"

"You are thinking of the father, Philip Charteris,"
explained Hazel.  "He died, years ago; then Vivian
died, his eldest son, and now it is Paul."

"So it is Paul now.  What is he like?"  And
Percival Desborough eyed the girl keenly.

"You would like him," she returned with enthusiasm.
"You feel you can confide in him.  To me
he is almost like one of my brothers, only, of course,
he is much older.  But he appears quite young—somehow
you forget his age."

"What is his age?"

"Oh, he must be thirty," Hazel answered, as one
who speaks, with both pity and reverence, of a life
well-nigh spent.

Her uncle chuckled amusedly.  "Is he bald?" he asked.

"He has got most beautiful thick hair," Hazel
returned indignantly.

There was a pause.

"By the way," her uncle remarked, "where did
you get your dark looks?"

"It is a sort of freak," Hazel rejoined, half
apologetically.  "It occurs in the family every now and
again.  Years and years ago there was a Hazel Le
Mesurier like me, only very much prettier; there is
a portrait of her in the gallery at home, dated 1661,
taken of her when she was five years old."

"It is a relief to hear she was prettier,"
Mr. Desborough said drily.  "But about Hugh: what does
young Charteris want with a private secretary?"

Hazel opened her eyes.  "Oh," she explained, "he
has heaps of things to see to and look after.  He
was saying only the other day that he thinks, if
Hugh does not mind, he will get an older man, and
let Hugh be assistant secretary."

Mr. Desborough stared at her aghast.  "That would
be nothing more nor less than an act of charity bestowed
upon the lad," he said at length.  "Nothing will make
me believe that Charteris requires two secretaries.  He
wants an excuse to help the family, so he keeps on a
worthless young man."

"How can you say such a thing!" Hazel cried hotly.
"Mr. Charteris begged to have him, and told mother it
would be a great convenience, because, Hazelhurst being
so near, he need not live at Earnscleugh, as most
secretaries would have to do."

"A good argument, truly," her uncle remarked curtly.

"I shall inquire into the matter directly I get home,"
the girl continued, more quietly, "and if I see or
suspect the faintest reason to believe there is anything
in what you say, Hugh shall at once come away, and
look for something else.  Worthless, indeed!"—her wrath
rising again—"Why, he would be a very clever artist
if only he could learn."

"There, there," said her uncle pettishly, "I may be
wrong."  But he was fairly well convinced of the way
in which matters stood, and felt a twinge of discomfort
as he made a shrewd guess at the feelings entertained
towards himself by young Charteris, should that young
man learn of the suspicion he had sown in the mind of
his niece.

Luncheon over, they returned as they came—under
the safe escort of Thomas—and were once more
established in the library.

Hazel consulted the clock.  "I ought to leave here
in half an hour," she observed, making an effort to
regain her composure, and resolutely setting aside this
new matter for troubled thought till she should have
quiet and leisure.

"By the way," Mr. Desborough began, "you said
just now you were short of pocket-money."  He took
from his pocket a book, and produced therefrom a
crisp piece of paper, which he handed to Hazel.  He
was experiencing a new and strange sense of remorse,
in that he had caused this bright girl, if but for a
moment, a disquieting thought, and he took himself to
task for a meddlesome old fool, interfering in matters
that were better left alone.  He was anxious to conciliate
his great-niece, but a trifle doubtful as to how his
overtures might be met.  He, Percival Desborough, was
growing distrustful of himself, and oddly solicitous for
the good opinion of a slip of a girl, of whose very
existence, a couple of hours earlier, he was scarcely
aware.

Hazel took the bit of paper.  "What is it?" she
asked, unfolding it distrustfully.

"A banknote," her uncle returned.  "Put it in your
purse, and let me know when it is gone."

Hazel flushed, refolded the note and handed it back.
"You must not think me ungenerous," she said gently,
"or imagine that I am brooding over anything that
you have said; especially as you retracted the most—the
most unpleasant of your ideas about us; but you
must own I could not accept this."

"Tut-tut," her uncle retorted, surprised and somewhat
disconcerted, "stuff and nonsense!  As if a young
girl like you could not take a tip from an old fellow
like me! and her uncle to boot."

"I am sorry," Hazel replied determinedly, "but I
really could not"; and she again tendered him the note.

"Afraid of losing your dignity, are you?" he said.
"Well, I have my pride too, and I refuse to take it back."

Hazel pondered the situation.  She was not
unsympathetic with her uncle, in the rather trying
predicament in which he had placed himself, and
could enter into his feelings very nearly.  But, strive
as she might, she could not put away his unkind,
nay, his cruel, words, at the beginning of their
interview, spoken in pain as they were, and, mayhap,
in all thoughtlessness.  But they were too fresh in
her memory.

"I see your difficulty," she said at length.  "What
shall I do?"

"Do what you will," her uncle returned testily.  He
was not to be worsted in the struggle.

There was a long pause, and the two combatants eyed
the small, innocent-looking cause of contention, that
now lay upon a little table beside them.

At length Hazel took it up, and was about to tear it
to shreds and transfer it to the waste-paper basket,
deeming such a course the best way to right the
embarrassment, when suddenly light flooded her mind.

"I may do anything I like with it?" she demanded,
her spirit rising, her eyes flashing.  "Anything, and
in your name, seeing that the money is not mine?"

"I don't care what you do with it," her uncle returned
with asperity.

Hazel rose and rang the bell, then reseated herself
and steadfastly returned her uncle's gaze of mute
hostility.  The door opened and the same servant
appeared, silently closed the door behind him, and
stood awaiting orders.

"Thomas," said Hazel.

"Yes, Miss."

The man advanced a few steps.

"Your master wishes to make you this little present
in recognition of your long and faithful services," and
she handed the astonished man the obnoxious
ten-pound note.  "Doubtless he will do much more for
you some day," she added.

"Thank you, Miss," said the dazed Thomas.

Mr. Desborough threw back his head and broke into
a hearty laugh, to the added confusion of the poor man,
who had not heard his master laugh for years.  But
Uncle Percival offered no explanation.  Recovering his
serenity, he turned to the servant.

"Order the carriage for 2.30 to take Miss Le
Mesurier to Paddington Station," he said briefly.
"That is the least you can do for the young lady;
eh, Thomas?"

The footman left the room, and Mr. Desborough
turned to his niece.  "Well," he said, "I acknowledge
that you have worsted me in the fray; and now, I
suppose, I am committed to leave the fellow a legacy,"
and he laughed again.

"You would wish to do so whether I had committed
you to it or not, would not you?" Hazel asked.  She
had fastened on her hat, and was now proceeding to
draw on her gloves.

Percival Desborough regarded her critically.  "Have
you any lovers, child?" he asked abruptly.

Hazel was about to deny stoutly the existence of
any such factor in her life, when a vision of Digby
Travers rose before her startled imagination, to her
discomfort and dismay.

"Well?" queried Uncle Percival.  "You seem to
be in uncertainty.  Don't tell me that a girl does not
know when a young fellow is making himself a fool
over her."

Hazel raised a somewhat perplexed and flushed
countenance, but she looked her august relative squarely
in the eyes.  "If you had asked me that yesterday,"
she said, "I should have answered no, without
hesitation—no one could have been more sure; but it was
only this morning that I began to be half afraid——"
she paused.

"Don't like him, eh?" her uncle interposed.  "What
is his name?"

"I think I won't tell you, please," she answered.
"You see, I simply must be mistaken: it would be
too ridiculous."

"Quite so," returned Uncle Percival.  "You probably
are mistaken.  It would be too ridiculous, quite too
inconceivable," and he regarded her quizzically.

"There is the carriage," Hazel said.  "Good-bye,
Uncle Percival."

She gave him her hand, and was surprised to find
it retained—awkwardly and without sentimentality, but,
nevertheless, Uncle Percival held on to the small
member with a goodly grip.

"You would not care to give a cross old man a kiss,
I suppose?" he asked, in an odd voice.

Hazel bent lower, and with gracious dignity saluted
her uncle's cheek.

At the same moment Thomas opened the door.
"The carriage is waiting," he announced, with a slight
catch in his voice.  Hazel walked out of the room.
Her uncle's eyes followed the little figure until the
closing of the door hid it from his sight.  Then he
looked, slowly and discontentedly, around the room.

"It is quite true," he murmured aloud, "it is dark—much
too dark."





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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Doris and Phyllis Travers clung close to their
friend and guest, Hazel Le Mesurier, for the
eve of her departure had come.  This was the last long
day to be spent together, and they were determined
to make the most of it.  With arms twined about
one another's waists, the three slim maidens sauntered
through the sunny meadow toward the river, with
the intention of spending a couple of hours upon its
banks in the quiet enjoyment of one another's society.

"If you could only stay a day or two longer," sighed
Doris, while Phyllis edged yet closer, and in silence
pressed the hand she held in hers.

"I must go," Hazel said resolutely.  "You see,"
she reiterated for the third time, "you must be home
for your birthday, rather particularly for a seventeenth
birthday."

With the first part of this assertion her friends
agreed cordially, but upon the soundness of the added
clause they were dubious.  Twelve-year-old Phyllis
nodded, meekly puzzled; sixteen-year-old Doris looked
for more, as one who, while wishing to be perfectly
reasonable, yet felt an explanation of so bold a
statement to be her due.

Hazel was conscious of the lack of absolute sympathy,
and set about removing any doubts upon the point that
it was but natural the two young girls should entertain.

"Seventeen," she resumed, "is rather a special age.
You might almost say it marks an epoch in one's life.
It is a great step from sixteen.  At sixteen you may
think childhood is completely over and for ever gone,
but it isn't.  Only you have to be seventeen to be
aware how young sixteen was"; and she regarded
Doris meditatively.  "It is an age," she went on, "when,
if your parents can afford it, you are presented at
Court and 'brought out.'  You generally begin with
a dance at home.  You put on your first long dress,
you do up your hair, though, to be sure, some young
women wait for all this till they are eighteen."  She
paused.

"I think that is wiser," Doris said boldly, though
with an inward misgiving that Hazel might hold that
her ideas upon the subject were not valid, as issuing
from the mouth of sixteen.  "Seventeen seems too
young for all that sort of thing; and it is always sad to
cut short one's youth.  I always tell Phyllis to keep
young as long as ever she can."

"I don't see that it is sad!  I don't know that youth
is such a particularly happy period of one's existence,"
Hazel began, but Doris pursed her lips warningly,
glancing significantly toward her young sister, giving her
worldly-wise friend to understand that they must suit
their conversation to the most youthful among them.

Hazel, while appreciating the wisdom that dictated
the caution, could not bring herself to own, in this
instance, that such prudence was necessary.  She was
about to make reply, when excited voices of children,
raised in distress, attracted the attention of the three
girls, and next moment they were running at full
speed toward the spot whence the cries proceeded.

"I am afraid one of them has fallen into the water,"
Doris panted.

"Leave it to me," Hazel gasped back, "I can swim.
They may be only quarrelling."

But a strange fear at her heart gave denial to her
words, and urged her on, ever faster.  As they neared
the bank, a small child emerged from behind the line
of willows that edged the water, and sped toward them
in wildest distress.

"Bobbie," she sobbed, "oh, he's drownded dead, he's
drownded dead."

"Come and show me," Hazel called to the child as
she passed, but the little thing only stood wringing her
hands.

There were other children upon the bank, however, and
Hazel soon learned that Bobbie had risen twice since
his immersion, each time lower down the stream.
There was no time to lose if she would save the boy's
life.  Tearing off her hat, she ran several yards lower,
so far as she could judge, than the spot where he had
been last seen, and, springing into the river, struck out
and reached its centre, where the current was strongest,
at the same moment that the child's unconscious form
rose for the third time and drifted against her.  With
a little cry of thankfulness, Hazel seized the helpless
body, and, careful to keep the head above water, began
to return.  It was difficult: the current was strong,
and she had only the use of one arm; her clothes
hampered her terribly; but at length she succeeded in
bringing her burden to shore, where many willing hands
were held out to rescue.  Hazel was panting distressfully,
but she did not lose a moment in setting about
the task of bringing breath back to the seemingly
lifeless body.  Phyllis she sent post-haste to the house
for brandy, and, bidding the little group of children
to stand back, she gave the child into Doris's arms.

"Hold him so," she gasped, "head down, so," and
pulling the little tongue well forward, she proceeded
to give several smart punches upon the pit of the
stomach, thus ridding it of much of the water that the
child had swallowed in such large quantities.  Then
laying him gently upon his back, she continued the
work of resuscitation, lifting the arms above the head,
round and down to the sides, with slow, rhythmic
motion, expanding and contracting the lungs.  So
engrossed were the two girls, that they were wholly
unaware of the fact that a small party was hastening
toward them from the house, headed by two young
men, who were running some distance in advance.
Doris was the first to perceive them, and she gave an
exclamation of relief.  Hazel never looked up; her
eyes were riveted upon the small face, noting its death-like
pallor; the purple eyelids; watching, so far in
vain, for the first tinge of colour, for the first flicker of
the eye-lashes that should tell of returning life.

"Is the brandy coming?" she asked.  Her back
was well-nigh broken, but she never paused in her
labour of love and mercy, did not even wait to wipe her
hot brow, or to put back some teasing locks of hair
that were dripping into her eyes and down her cheeks.
Indeed, she was hardly conscious of aught else, in her
growing anxiety, but the fact that life was strangely
long in returning to the little frame.

"I can see Phyllis coming," Doris replied, "but there
are others much nearer: Digby and—yes, Mr. Charteris,
are nearly here.  Perhaps they are bringing the
brandy."

Hazel worked on.  In another minute the two young
men were beside her, eagerly proffering aid; and, to
her immense relief, a large firm hand was tendering
her a flask.  She seized upon it, and grew sick with
alternate hope and fear.  She felt that the fiery
liquid was the poor little child's last chance—a very
little while would decide now.  Trembling with anxiety,
she set Doris to chafe the wrists and hands with the
potent fluid, whilst she moistened the blue, pinched
lips, dabbed the temples, and endeavoured to pour a
few drops down the throat.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, for Christ's sake," the girl
prayed, but her dry lips refused to voice the prayer.

Did the little face look less ghastly, or was it her
imagination?  And surely—yes, surely the eyelids
quivered.  With redoubled energy she worked on.

"Can we help?  Do tell us what to do," Paul's
voice said.  He was kneeling at the child's feet,
arranging a blanket round the limbs; Digby paced up and
down, never taking his eyes from the little group.
Hazel did not turn or start.  It seemed natural that
Paul should be there, in case she wanted him.  She
made an effort to speak, but her throat was too
contracted.  She could only answer him with a shake
of her head.

Of a sudden the boy's eyes opened, and a faint colour
stole into cheeks and lips.  Hazel gave a little sob of
thankfulness—Doris began to cry; it was saved, saved,
this little life!  The tension was broken; Hazel
staggered to her feet, dizzy with excitement and fatigue.
Digby and Paul lifted the child from the ground, and
Digby made for the house with his burden, well covered
in the blanket, with all speed.

Hazel stood staring blankly after her charge; then,
of a sudden, self-consciousness stung her, acting as a
momentary stimulus.  What a guy she must look—what
a guy she had looked all this time, kneeling in
her clinging, dripping clothes and hair!  How could
she meet the little party of people now close upon
them, how manage to walk to the house!  She turned
blindly, tremblingly, flushing red, to Doris and Paul.
Then the question answered itself; for the next moment
Paul was wrapping a second blanket around herself and,
relieved of this and all other need for thought or care,
she quietly fainted away, and was borne to the house in
Paul's strong arms, all shame and distress gone from
her.

Paul Charteris had come to pay a morning call at
The Beeches, with leisure to stay to lunch if asked to do
so.  He was yearning for a glimpse of Hazel and
desirous of learning the day that should terminate her
visit.  Mrs. Travers was about to propose to her guest
a stroll down to the riverside in quest of her girls, at
the moment of Phyllis's breathless entrance and
alarming demand for brandy.  Paul's heart ceased to beat
for a space, for in the first confused account rendered
by the panting girl he only understood that Hazel had
been in the water!

Quickly ascertaining the true state of affairs, the
whole household fared forth hurriedly, bearing blankets,
and the invaluable liquor that had saved the child's
life—Paul and Digby running at top speed ahead.

Rescued and rescuer were soon warm and comfortable,
for, once at the house, nothing was lacking that could
aid in their quick recovery.  Mrs. Travers and Doris
soon had Hazel in dry clothes, and after the administration
of a hot drink of Mrs. Travers's own concocting,
the spent girl was easily persuaded to rest upon her bed.
Every comfort, too, was lavished upon little Bobbie; so
that, when the child's mother, Mrs. Boutcher, arrived,
nothing remained but for her to sit beside his couch and
watch, with thankful heart, his peaceful slumber.

Hazel also slept; which circumstance Phyllis crept
halfway down the stairs to report, Paul halfway up, to
learn; and he was able to leave after lunch, satisfied
that all was well with the patients.  He stoutly refused
to have his coat dried, assuring good, kind Mrs. Travers
that it was not damp, or in the least way the
worse for its close contact with his dripping burden; in
face of the fact that in the middle of the shoulder of
the grey tweed was a round dark patch of wet, where
Hazel's head had lain, and long streaks down his sleeve,
where her dripping hair had clung—a circumstance to
be observed by all blessed with eyes to see, and which
Digby Travers noted with a pang of jealous misery.
He fully appreciated the feeling that prompted Paul's
stout resistance, for it would indeed be desecration
to subject the garment to the rough handling of a
servant and to the drying influence of the kitchen fire!
For a while he left Paul to fight it out by himself as
best he might.  Presently more generous feelings came
to him, and he quickly put a stop to his mother's
importunate suggestions for the supposed comfort of
her guest by a half sullen, but affectionate: "Don't
bother Charteris, mother, he is all right"; and Paul
darted a grateful look at his rival, which, however, the
other refused to meet.

Thus Mr. Charteris set out upon his homeward way,
well pleased with his visit.  He had obtained his
glimpse of Hazel—nay, more, had for the space of nine
or ten blessed minutes held her within his arms—here
Paul reverently touched the damp patch upon his
shoulder; he had learnt that she was to return home
on the morrow; and, incidentally, so far as he was
concerned, he had called upon the Traverses and paid
his somewhat long-neglected respects.  Further, he had
learnt from the despondent gloom upon Digby Travers's
countenance, that this young man's love affair was not
prospering.  Altogether it was very satisfactory.

A somewhat shaky Hazel descended to the drawing-room
for tea, and right gladly was she welcomed.  No
one could do enough for the little heroine.  She was
soon installed in the easiest of easy chairs, and the
dainties of the tea-table were lavished upon her by
Doris, Phyllis, the morose Digby, and the sturdily
admiring Francis.

"I say, where did you learn it all?" the potential
farmer asked, sinking down, with her cup in his hand,
upon a hassock at her feet, and gazing up at her from
his point of vantage.

Hazel did not at once reply.  She had lifted shy
eyes, so soon as she was settled to her friends' liking,
and took a survey of the room.  Mrs. Travers was
smiling upon her from the tea-table, where her duties
as mistress of the house held her prisoner; Mr. Travers,
seated near his wife, was nodding kindly approval;
but Paul—Paul was not there, and the girl at one and
the same time experienced both disappointment and
relief.

"You might tell a fellow," pursued Francis.  "If
the little chap had been left to me, well—he would
not be alive to know it: that is one good thing."

"I don't quite know—I must have read it somewhere,"
she answered a trifle absently.  Then rousing
herself, she turned to Digby.  "But Bobbie owes his
life to you and Mr. Charteris, as much as to me.
You were so prompt with the brandy and blankets;
Phyllis was quick too, and Doris helped so much.
Please don't put it on to me, for we all worked
together."

But Bobbie's mother, who presently begged for, and
obtained, an interview with Bobbie's rescuer, was not
to be put off in this wise.  She admitted that all
thanks and praise were due to God; "but you were
His chief instrument, Miss," she averred again and
again, "and as such you might have done the work
badly."

Hazel did not quite see the logic of this, but she
held her peace, believing it to be the kinder part to
accept the thanks that the grateful woman was so
anxious to render her.





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.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

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   CHAPTER XII

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Time—five o'clock in the afternoon.  Scene—the
homestead of Paul Charteris, or rather that
portion of the house, the windows of which opened
upon the verandah overlooking the green lawn that
merged into the Le Mesuriers' ground.  The sky was
dark and lurid.  Thick, straight lines of silver rain
were striking slantwise upon the lawn, like giant
harp-strings, the wind playing discordant notes upon them,
until the prelude ended in a crash of thunder, and
the whole power of the invisible orchestra began.

For the last few days the weather had been
immoderately hot, and it seemed that, their last atom
of patience chafed away by the discomfort of the
extreme heat, even the most worm-like among the
spirits of the air had turned at last, and in an access
of irritable sensibility were giving vent to their
opinions, and flinging inertia and exhausted forces
to the winds.  Some rode upon darkling clouds that
scudded across the angry heavens, colliding with
one another in their haste: or, who shall say,
perhaps deliberately charging one another in their
tempestuous rage, making a veritable tilting-ground
of that usually peaceful realm, the clash of their
invisible lances striking fire in vivid zig-zag streaks,
whilst the thunder of their contact seemed to shake
the very earth.  Others again put their whole energy
into the rain, as if seeking to deluge the countryside;
and mercilessly did they beat a little bowed and
huddled figure that emerged from the comparative
shelter of the trees, after a moment of fearful
hesitation, and sped across the open, making directly for
the verandah.

Paul Charteris sat within his library, deeply brooding.
He appeared to be occupied at the writing-table, but
for long his pen had remained idle.  He found difficulty
in concentrating his thoughts upon the work in hand;
all sorts of pleasant and congenial fancies had hold
of him.  But presently a tapping upon the window-pane
began to attract his attention intermittently,
unconsciously teasing, till, shaking off his reverie,
he fell to blaming the gardener.

"That jasmine down again," ran his thoughts.  "But
perhaps it is hardly Tompkins's fault, though I did
tell him to see to it himself last time—such rain and
wind as this!  But no, it cannot be the jasmine."

For the taps had become insistent, to an accompaniment
of what sounded like the kicking of a foot against
the lower wood part of the door-window—little, sharp,
imperative kicks—and Paul, fully roused at last, sprang
to his feet, faced about, and saw in the dim light, to
his no small amazement, a muffled figure, the head
shrouded in a long dark cloak.  He opened the
window, and was about to resent this intrusion at so
private a part of the house, beginning with directions
as to where the doors were to be found, when the
figure darted past him into the room, with gesture and
movement familiar to him; and letting the cloak drop
in a damp heap upon the floor, Hazel Le Mesurier
stood laughing at him.

"How astonished you look," she cried, "and it
certainly is a queer afternoon to choose for calling;
but I did not have to put on my best things to run
over here, and I particularly want to see you; I have
not slept much for two nights thinking about it," she
added, suddenly grave, and seating herself in a
lounge-chair with something of the gesture of a tired child.

Paul stood still, his hand upon the open window,
collecting his senses.  What a delicious, unexpected,
utterly unlooked-for treat.  He could hardly believe in
his good fortune.

"You had better shut the window," Hazel resumed,
the least hint of petulance in her tone.  "See, the rain
is driving in.  Even the verandah roof is not broad
enough to keep out such rain.  Oh dear, it was a
business to get here—but I had to come."

A slight uneasiness was beginning to mingle with
Paul's delight.  Did the girl's mother know of her
daughter's visit to him in this somewhat unconventional,
impulsive way?  Probably not.  Yet he durst not risk
offending the little lady by such a question, which,
to say the least, would hardly sound polite.  Any way
here she was, here, and the storm-darkened room.
seemed flooded with sunshine!  Then a thought struck
him: Hugh had not left the house.  He felt he ought
to propose fetching Hugh, but he was much afraid
that Hazel would eagerly jump at the chance of seeing
her brother, in her sociable little way, and in her utter
indifference as to whether she was alone with Paul
or not.

"You have not had tea?" Paul asked, closing the
window and advancing into the room.  "Shall I ring
for some, and—and ask Hugh to join us?"

"You can ring for tea," Hazel rejoined decisively,
"but I don't want Hugh here—at all events not just
yet.  He would be the very worst person to overhear
what I have to say.  I must say it to you quite alone."

Paul felt immensely relieved.  He had done his
duty; he had left the settlement of a slightly embarrassing
situation to the lady, and if that lady forbade him
to call a third person to the interview about to take
place, it was not for him to insist.  Yet, on looking
at her again his conscience smote him.  The lady was
so young, so unsophisticated—his bonnie Hazel—perhaps
he ought to act for her, give her brotherly
advice and hints as to what was customary.

But no, he could not do it.  If he succeeded in
making her see at all what he meant, it would be at
the cost of embarrassing her, and nothing would be
more cruel than so to wound the girl.

He seated himself at some distance from her and
divined, to his amused chagrin, from her look of
surprise, as she involuntarily glanced at a chair near
her own and thence to the one he had taken, that
she had momentarily deemed him unfriendly inclined,
but was the next instant content and satisfied with
the reason of his action: the chair he had taken was
the more comfortable!

"You have forgotten to ring," she began; "but
it is just as well, because I shall only keep you a
few minutes and then you can have tea, and Hugh."  Paul
felt a third misinterpretation of his movements
would be a last straw.  "I daresay you are pining
for company this dull afternoon," she continued;
"and oh, Mr. Charteris," she broke off, "it is very
serious what I have to say."

"You shall tell me in a moment," he replied; "but
are you not very wet?  Had I not better put a
match to that firing?  We could dry your cloak, and
you could put your feet to it.  It seems I am always
to see you dripping, like a mermaid."

Hazel flushed at this allusion to the incident of
two days since; but now that he had brought it to
her recollection, she took furtive glances at the grey
coat he was wearing, an uneasy sense that it was
familiar to her pervading her mind; and surely, yes,
surely—or was it her imagination?—a patch upon the
right shoulder showed slightly darker than the rest,
as the flames he was kindling played upon his figure,
us if it was still somewhat damp.

She was in ignorance of the exact mode of her
conveyance to the house, but had shrewd suspicions—suspicions
that made her too shy to ask questions.
She was sure of one thing: she had not walked.

"You are none the worse for your immersion, I
hope?" Paul asked, still busy with the fire.  He knew
that he was embarrassing her, but his pleasure in
her company made him mischievously inclined.

"No, thank you," Hazel answered demurely.  "I
am quite well."

Silence fell between them.  "This is going to be a
big blaze," Paul remarked presently.  "I hope you
won't find it too hot."

"Oh no," Hazel replied rather vaguely.  She was
trying to screw up her courage to ask that which
she had come to ask.  Why not out with, it now,
whilst his eyes were turned from her?  Indeed, if
she slipped into that other chair, she would be quite
out of his range of vision.

"Mr. Charteris," came a very small voice from
somewhere behind him—she had contrived the
exchange of seats so quietly that he, intent upon his
work, had not noticed the movement—"Mr. Charteris,
are you giving—that is, are you in a sort of
way—I mean, do you——"  Her voice quavered, and she
stopped.

Paul wheeled round and stood before her, regarding
her in amazement.  She looked up at him piteously,
and then away again.  Paul, half amused, half
concerned at the obvious perturbation and perplexity of
mind under which she was labouring, waited in
silence, a silence fraught with sympathy, for her to
continue.

"Oh, could not you turn your back again?" she
cried in desperation, "and—and I'll try to tell you."

Paul, with one stride, was beside her and, kneeling
upon one knee to bring himself to her level, took
both tremulous hands in his.

"What is it, little one?" he asked.  "What is this
dreadful, 'serious' something you have on your mind?"

"Won't you please to go away or walk about?"
she besought him.

But Paul knew that this would be just as difficult
for her.  "No," he said firmly.  "Just tell me, Hazel,
and get it over."

"But perhaps it is horrid and—and unladylike of
me," she wailed.  "Perhaps you will be hurt or
offended."

"Tell me," he repeated gently.

Hazel moved restively in her chair.  "I wish I had
not come here," she said rebelliously.

Paul waited, and then, with a little gasp, it all
came out.

"It is about Hugh.  Are you having him in—in
charity?"  Her voice sank to a whisper upon the
last, fateful word, and she lay back in her chair, and
tightly closed her eyes.  What would he say?  How
would he take it?  She had not the courage to look
at him.

But Paul never seemed to fail her—he did not fail
her now.  "Hazel," he said quietly, after a long pause,
"what put such an idea into your head?"

"Uncle Percival," Hazel answered laconically, with
startling promptitude.  Slowly she opened her eyes,
but she turned her look away from him.

Paul rose to his feet and quietly began to pace
the floor.  "Uncle Percival ought to be—boiled," he
said at length, indignantly.  "How came he to mention
the topic at all to you?"

"I called upon him," Hazel rejoined; and she
proceeded to relate what had passed between herself
and her relative.

"You are a plucky child to have 'bearded' him,"
Paul observed, when she had finished.  He had heard
much of "Uncle Percival," but little to his credit.

"Oh, he was not so bad," Hazel said, modestly
disclaiming the compliment.  "I was frightened of
him at first, but he got nicer and nicer.  In the
end," she added naïvely, "he asked me to kiss him.
That was quite friendly of him, was not it?"

"Very friendly indeed," Paul answered, his views
concerning "Uncle Percival" undergoing a quick
change.  "I had no idea he was so—so human.
And—and—did you?"

"Oh yes," Hazel said blandly.  "Just a quick one on
the cheek, you know—not at all as you would kiss
mother, or as you would hug the boys."

"Just so," Paul returned meekly.  "The old ruffian
did not deserve such luck," was his inward comment.

There was a somewhat lengthy pause, devoted by
Paul to pondering the subject.  But of a sudden he
looked up to find the girl regarding him beseechingly.

"You—you have not answered yet," she said,
timidly reminding him.

"Need I say anything?" he asked, amused at her
insistence.  "Do you not know me better than to suspect
me of doing such a thing?  Why, it would not only be
an insult to Hugh, but Mrs. Le Mesurier would be
quick to see through, and resent, such interference."

Hazel gave vent to a sigh of relief; and Paul went
on.  "How could you credit such a suspicion for a
moment?  Don't you see how pleasant it is for me to
have some one about that I know and like?  Why,
that in itself is worth the—the mere salary, let alone
the fact that he is really useful.  Are you satisfied?  Do
you believe me?"  And he regarded his visitor quizzically.

"Of course," Hazel said generously, and with a little
flush.  "Between you and me," she continued, "I could
not help feeling, from what I know of Hugh, that
there might be a certain amount of truth about the
char—, in what Uncle Percival said," she amended.
"There is no denying that Hugh has not much of a
business head, and—and that, therefore, it follows that
he cannot be quite as useful to you as you would
wish.  I—I could not help feeling that the new man
you think of engaging could easily do it all, you
know.  But I quite believe you," she added sincerely,
feeling apologetic for harping upon the subject, or,
indeed, for adding a single word after having acknowledged
herself satisfied; having clinched, so to say,
with Paul in faith and trust.  "But he would make a
splendid artist, would not he?" she said enthusiastically.

"Yes," Paul replied, "he is very clever.  It is a
thousand pities that he cannot take it up; for, I will
admit, he would make a better artist than secretary."

Hazel glowed with gratified pride.  "Well," she
said, "I must go.  Hugh had better not see me.  He
would, of course, want to know why I had come."

Paul smothered a sigh.  "But your feet," he objected.
"Are your shoes properly dry?"

"Oh, I think dry enough," she returned.  "They
will be wet again by the time I am home."

"You will change then, of course?" Paul asked
anxiously, and Hazel promised she would.

"By the way," Hazel remarked, "it was my birthday
yesterday."  They had both risen, and the girl
turned her back upon him as she spoke, and stood
looking pensively from the window.

"Yes," Paul returned.

"You knew?" Hazel asked.

"Of course," he answered.  There was a pause.

"Why didn't you come then?  We—they quite
missed you."

"I was not asked," Paul explained earnestly.  "I
thought you might have special plans for the day, and
that I might be in the way."

Hazel waited, dissatisfied, for more; but no more, it
seemed, was forthcoming.

"You did not even wish me many happy returns of
the day," she commented, still turning from him.

"No," Paul admitted, with unwonted and seemingly
unnecessary sternness.

"Well," she remarked, not knowing whether to be
more hurt or surprised, "I—I think you might."

"You know I wish you everything the world has to
give—all good and all blessings," Paul broke out, a
marked fervour in his tone, and paused.

"Yes?" Hazel asked, a little breathless, with a sense
of being somewhat overpowered.

"As to gifts," Paul went on desperately, "I would
come with my arms full—I would lay all I had at——"  He
broke off, and with an effort seemed to pull himself
together.

"You need not make such a lot of it," Hazel
expostulated, in innocent surprise.  "It is not a
twenty-first, or anything so important as that.  And
even if it were, I should only expect, supposing you
wished to give me anything at all, that is, I should
only expect one present; just a small remembrance,
you know, the—the usual thing."

"There is no usual——" He stopped short and
endeavoured to recover himself.  "Hazel," he said
quietly, "you have not thought the omission due to
carelessness, or doubted my—my friendship?"

"Oh no," Hazel declared, "and I did not think of
presents: they never entered my head.  And as to
the wishes—well, you have wished them now, and
thank you very much," she added, somewhat hurriedly,
half fearful of a repetition of the very full measure, so
fervently expressed.  "The rain has stopped.  I will
start at once."

She left her cloak, at Paul's urgent request, to be
dried and returned to her later.  She stepped out of
the French window and, turning, gave her hand to Paul.

"I am so glad I came and cleared it all up—about
Hugh," she said warmly.  "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," he rejoined, "and many, many happy
returns of yesterday," he added, dropping the hand.

Something in his tone puzzled Hazel, and she looked
at him wonderingly.

"How odd Paul, that is, Mr. Charteris, is to-day,"
she mused as she sped across the lawn.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII

.. vspace:: 2

"My dear child," exclaimed Helen Le Mesurier,
"what an afternoon to choose for walking!"

Mrs. Le Mesurier was seated in the recess of the
sparsely furnished hall, where tea was usually served.
She had already partaken of that refreshment, but
set about making more at sight of her daughter.
Hazel gratefully accepted a cup and seated herself
for a chat.

"I have not been for a walk," she said; "at least,
I have walked, but not for walking's sake.  I have
been calling upon Mr. Charteris."

Helen looked surprised, as naturally she might.

"Hazel!" she expostulated.  "What purpose could
you have had?  He comes here so often.  Could you
not have asked my advice as to going?  It looks a
little odd—a young girl calling by herself," she added
gently.  "Paul will think it odd."

She knew her child, and that slight reproof was
enough—the least hint that intimated forwardness, in
a way, too much; yet both must be given: such was
a mother's duty.

The girl's face flushed red, and hastily setting down
her cup, she looked at her mother in mute distress.

"Oh, surely not," she pleaded; "surely he thought
it perfectly natural—just as I did, mother.  I—I wanted
to see him very particularly.  I could not wait for him
to come.  If I had waited I might not have had the
opportunity of saying what I wanted to say—it was
about Hugh."

"You found Hugh there, of course?" Helen interposed
comfortingly.  "That makes things better.  May
mothie come into the mystery about Hugh?"

She had made the useful and necessary suggestion
of incorrectness in her young daughter's action, and
knew that she need say no more upon the subject—that
she might with safety pour oil upon the little
wound she had perforce inflicted, and bind it up to
her child's comfort: for the sensitive girl would not
so err again.  But the kind words, spoken to bring
consolation, brought instead new apprehension to
Hazel.

"He was in the house," she admitted: "but he was
not——"  She broke off, of a sudden recollecting how
Paul had proposed Hugh's presence, and how she had
forbidden it.  "Mr. Charteris wanted to call him and
I would not let him.  Oh, do you believe he will think
me a horrid, bold sort of person?" and she looked
beseechingly for her mother's reply.

Helen had difficulty in restraining a smile, as her
eyes rested upon her daughter's face: the idea of the
possessor of that face being considered a "horrid, bold
sort of person" proving almost too ludicrous for the
maintenance of gravity: delicate, sensitive, refined,
beautiful as a flower; just now tremulous, beseeching.

"No," she admitted, after what was to Hazel an
agonised pause, "I don't think he will."  And the smile
had its way.  "But tell me, dearie, why you went at all."

So Hazel told all, beginning at Uncle Percival's
uncomfortable and startling suggestion, that Paul
Charteris was giving in charity to the Le Mesuriers,
through the medium of the "worthless young man"—Hugh.
She had before told her mother of the visit
to her uncle; and Helen, half amused, half concerned,
had not wholly disapproved of her girl's spiritedness;
but this portion of the conversation during that visit
Hazel had before omitted to report, not wishing to
anger her mother against Mr. Desborough, or indeed
to disturb her peace of mind until she, Hazel, had
first ascertained the truth.

"So you see how I did it all for the best, mother.
You see how important it was to learn the truth, and
at once, without troubling you, dearest, if I could
possibly help it."

"Yes, dearie, I do see.  So, I know, does Paul.
Do not be troubled about it any more.  Only
remember that we must, none of us, defy certain
conventionalities—we must observe rules by which to
regulate our behaviour.  They mostly have their good
sense and usefulness, though at times we may find
them irksome, and tiresome to follow, and feel impatient
at their restrictions."

"Yes, mother," rejoined the pretty penitent, meekly.

And then followed one of those close embraces in
which mother and daughter were wont to indulge at
the termination of every discourse between them, that
held in it anything in the nature of reprimand and
submission; expressing full, free, and loving forgiveness
on the mother's part, and sincere contrition and
penitence on the part of the loving daughter.

But the discomforting impression that Hazel had
received, that Paul might be thinking her forward,
proved disastrous to that young man's peace; for
Hazel did her utmost to avoid him, and managed,
with most unlooked-for success, to elude
meetings—generally slipping away to her own room if he came
to the house, and seldom risking discovery by spending
much time in her tree; though, had he but known it,
one Sunday morning she was holding church there,
as was her wont; but she kept so absolutely still, as
he passed beneath the branches, the full midsummer
leafage of which afforded so complete a screen as to
hide entirely any living thing that took refuge
there among, be it bird, beast, or—girl, that she was not
discovered.

One morning poor Hazel's story was returned, with
the editor's compliments and regrets.  The girl retired
within herself, concerning this great disappointment,
until such time as she could confide in Teddie, and
receive advice as to her further movements.

Saturday came at last, and a very sober Hazel met
the afternoon train, bringing Teddie alone.  Gerald,
he said, was following by the next.

"And it is just as well, Hazel," the boy added,
wearily.  "I am nearly off my head with worry.
And though, of course, you cannot help a fellow, still
you can sympathise with a chap and ease him a bit."

At once Hazel's own troubles became insignificant,
and she was all attention; but, as was her custom,
she did not press her sympathy upon him in words,
but walked on beside him, earnest-faced and ready-witted,
waiting for what he should choose to tell her.

"I want five pounds," her brother broke out at
length, "and five pounds I must have."

Hazel's heart sank.  What a nuisance money was!

"Now the question is how I am to get it," Teddie
went on.  "Your story will bring in quite that—and
you would, I know, lend me the cash.  But
goodness knows when you will hear of it again.
Editors are the dickens for keeping people waiting."

"He did not keep *me* long," said Hazel, mournfully,
and she drew from her pocket the ill-fated
manuscript, and Teddie, with incredulous horror in
his eyes, read slowly: "The Victoria Cross and How
it was Won," twice through before he could believe
the evidence of his senses.

"The fellow will never get on," he told Hazel
dispassionately.  "He will come to no good end.
He has not the first essentials for getting on in his
particular business.  He does not know a good thing
when he sees it; he does not know what suits the
public taste, and probably cares less.  Well, I pity
him."

"But his magazine is a very good one, I mean
of high standing"—Hazel ventured timidly, thinking
Teddie's calm not altogether natural or healthy—"and
it is very well known."

"Mere luck," announced Teddie.  "It won't last
It can't.  But I shall go and ask for an explanation,"
he continued, his anger rising, somewhat to his sister's
relief.  "He will have to satisfy me."

"He seemed rather nice, if you remember," Hazel
observed, in just defence of the roundly abused editor.
"That is the worst of it.  If he had been, well, a
disagreeable sort of man, whom you strongly suspected
of being ultra-critical and ill-natured, why, then, one
would try again with a light heart.  But, Teddie, I
cannot help thinking he would have taken it if he
could."

"You either forget what I told you of the stories
he has accepted, or else you have no faith in my
judgment, Hazel," Teddie returned censoriously.  "I
can assure you he has taken all sorts of trash.  I
have seen it—in print."

"And you do not think mine trash?" Hazel asked
doubtfully.

"No," declared the loyal Teddie, half defiantly, "I
don't.  And that moonlight scene after the battle,
and the battle itself, if it comes to that, are just
ripping."

They halted upon the roadway, Teddie to light a
cigarette, Hazel to open and unfold the manuscript,
to refresh her memory on the parts so highly
commended.  Together they stood awhile, he reading over
her shoulder; but the reconsideration of her work
brought the girl no comfort.  Even to her youth and
inexperience the story appeared crude, obviously the
writing of a beginner—and a very young one, of no
especial talent.  Even her brother began to experience
a disquieting sense of imperfection as he read on.
Somehow the tale lacked the brilliancy of dramatic
force that he had, on first reading, attributed to it;
and for the first time he was uneasily conscious of
a desire to laugh in quite the wrong places.  But he
was not going to discourage his sister altogether for
all that, though perhaps it would be true kindness
to discontinue such unqualified commendation.

"I expect your bad writing put him off," he said
at length, with brotherly bluntness.  "You ought to
have got me or Digby or some one to write it out
neatly for you."

"Yes?" questioned Hazel, only half reassured.  "Do
you think that would have made all the difference,
Teddie?"

"It might," Teddie affirmed with, however, less assurance
than heretofore.  It was, after all, false kindness
to give nothing but praise.  "But if it is not that, it
may be the—the 'vision' they don't like; and you
know, Hazel, I am beginning to doubt myself whether
it has not got a ludicrous side.  Do you think yourself
that it is natural?  *Would* the mother be knocking
about a battlefield, thousands of miles from home?"

"Perhaps she would not," admitted poor Hazel.
"But you see, Teddie, she was supposed to be a
widow with no other children, and very, very fond of
this only son, whom she follows to the front
unbeknown to him, having no home ties to keep her in
England."

The girl looked wistfully for her brother's next
comment.

"I think," he said decidedly, as they walked on
again, "that you have too much killing in your style.
I admit that you are good at it, but it may not be
liked, especially in a woman writer.  It is—it is hard,
you might say blood-thirsty.  Just look how you kill
them off," he continued ruthlessly, waxing eloquent
in his theme, "wholesale!"

Hazel looked somewhat shocked as this appalling
idea was presented to her.

"Teddie," she gasped, "where—where have I killed
them off so?  Of course you have to have deaths in
battle.  It is one of the horrors of war."

"It is not only the battle," Teddie insisted.  "It is
not only generally, so to speak, but you delight in bringing
deaths into private life.  Look at your hero's family,
for example: how you have to make that wretched woman
widowed and childless; excepting, of course, the hero
himself, but even him you bring to the point of death.
It is not good art," he concluded, shaking his head.

"Yes," she admitted sadly; "perhaps it is a rather
unwomanly trait in my writing."

"I am glad you see it," her brother returned, softening
somewhat.  "Why, you have only got to have a
murder in it to make 'Battle, Murder, and Sudden
Death' an excellent title."

"Well," Hazel declared, after a pause, "I shall
give up trying to make money in that way.  My
only real gift is music.  There is no doubt about
it, that I should never make an author.  If only
people would hire me to sing at little concerts.  You
know what a success I am at the school concert at
Christmas-time, and how old Jonathan Higgins would
walk ten miles to hear 'My mother bids me bind my
hair,' as I sing it.  I am thinking of that five pounds,
old fellow," she added dismally.

"Yes, by Jove!" Teddie rejoined, and relapsed into
silence.  "Since my rise," he began presently, "I have
been in constant difficulties.  It is always the way.
When you have not a halfpenny, you do nothing and
go nowhere."

Hazel nodded.  She longed to ask her brother to
what extent he had broken through this wise régime,
but held her peace.

"I date my difficulties from the day when I gave a
champagne lunch to five fellows I know."

"The day of the rise?" his sister asked shrewdly,
awed by this peep into dissipated life.

"You have got it," Teddie admitted.  "It may
have been foolish, but the fellows have stood me treat
often enough—or offered to—and my usual answer,
that I did not go in for society because I could not
afford to do my part, did not always work, you know.
I got talked over.  Since then," he continued, "I have
stood a theatre or two, and—well, the long and short
of it is, that Mrs. Walters, our landlady, wants her
rent, and is beginning to make a nuisance of herself."

Hazel thought of the ten pounds that she had
bestowed on her uncle's servant; but, troubled as she
was for her brother, she could not repent her of the
deed.

"You can't borrow of Hugh or Gerald?" she ventured gently.

"No," Teddie told her.  "We have once for all
agreed not to borrow from each other, and it is not a
bad plan: for though it is dashed hard luck that *I* am
bound down not to borrow of them, I am thankful to
think they cannot borrow of me," he added ruefully.

"Yes," Hazel returned, struck with the sense of this,
"that certainly is a good thing.  Well," she added,
"you must let me think it well over.  I will do my
best, Teddie, to help you."

Already a half-formed plan had arisen in her mind,
but she greatly wondered whether she could bring
herself to go through with it.  Certainly she could
not for herself; yet for Teddie it was different—for
Teddie she could do much.

Presently they left the roadway, clambered up a
high bank, and plunging through a tangle of brambles,
entered the cool, leafy walks of their own grounds—a
delicious relief after the dust and glare.  The
foliage was just now at its full, and for the most part
of a dark green, each leaf heavy, thick, and strong, with
as yet no hint of autumn in its perfection of maturity.
Elm, lime, beech, horse-chestnut, oak, copper beech,
silver birch, feathery larch, ash, fir, and pine; what an
enthralling medley of delight!  The great tree branches,
heavy to repletion, waved stately in the gentle summer
wind, dignified, majestic, all the sportiveness of youth
and spring-time gone; rugged-barked, smooth-barked,
light grey; green trunks, whitey-grey trunks, almost
black trunks; gnarled, veined, moss-grown, creeper-covered;
the unspeakable grace of the smaller boughs
growing from out the larger limbs: each shapely twig,
after a series of knots and delicate articulations,
terminating in a leaf of perfect outline, each indentation
clearly defined, the edges of some almost fluted in the
vigour of their full, crisp growth.

What was there in her beloved woodland that the
girl did not know and love; from the swelling, bursting
buds of spring—nay, before that, when the bare, brown
twigs had nothing to show, save a certain swollen look,
and yet seemed instinct with life—to the falling of the
leaf?  Some leaves there were of such tenacity that
only the insistent pushing and shooting of the spring
buds could at last succeed in ousting the poor crumpled
yellow or brown thing from its place.  And oh, the
flooring of the woods in autumn; the rustling of one's
tread through the fallen leaves of many hues; the
crunch of the little triangular beech-nuts, still in their
rough, brown, lily-shaped, gaping pods, or fallen out of
them, the more ready to hand for the squirrels; the
acorns, smiling up green and smooth, half in half
out of their dainty brown cup, looking as if a squeeze at
the cup's base would cause the slippery nut to shoot out
like a benignant green bullet; fir-cones like miniature
pineapples cut in cork; spiky pine needles, that only
bent in mockery if you tried to prick anything with
them; softly bristling chestnut burrs, all agape,
discovering the shining red-brown treasure within; and
patches of bracken, never far to seek.

In another month's time, Hazel knew, such autumn
delights would begin.  Just now, nothing could be
lovelier than the dense, heavy foliage of full summer; for
the shades of green were rich in their many gradations,
whilst the grey mosses and woodland grasses gave
change in plenty to the eye.

On reaching home, they found a visitor with Helen,
in the person of Mr. Charteris.  Hardly a visitor, so
Hazel thought, in momentary dismay—he seemed to
live at Hazelhurst.  There was no escaping this time,
as hostess and guest were awaiting the two to begin
tea, at which her mother liked the girl to preside.
Down she sat in their midst, pink-cheeked, and very
busily did she occupy herself—tea-making seemed to
have become the most soul-absorbing work, calling
for her undivided attention.

All this was terribly apparent to poor Paul.  It
must be himself she was shunning—she was not
usually so engrossed, surely, as not to be able to
join in the chat, or notice any one, but just steadily
fill and refill cups, with stern precision, taxing her
memory upon the momentous question of little milk,
much milk, one lump, two lumps, no sugar, tea rather
weak, tea strong, tea average.  "Dear me," thought
Paul, "what a lot there is in tea-making if one
notices, and I have always thought it so simple."

Presently he asked her if he could help—do
something besides handing dishes.  She only grew yet
pinker-cheeked, refused to look at him—Paul was
sure she was aware that he was trying to make her
look—and said there was really nothing to do.  And
she effected her escape as soon as possible, partly,
Paul suspected wretchedly, to avoid giving him her
hand.  And yet, in contrariness, no sooner did she hear
him go than she felt inclined to cry, and longed, with
a strange inconsistency that puzzled herself, to run after
him—to let her hand rest in that strong, dear grasp
of his for a few moments, whilst she assured him
there was nothing, nothing the matter.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

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   CHAPTER XIV

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   "OSBORNE HOUSE, LANCASTER GATE,
       "*July* 12, 19—.

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"MY DEAR HELEN,

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"It may not be news to tell you that I am
a lonely old man; but how lonely and, for the matter
of that, how old, I am but now beginning to realise.
The realisation came upon me with the visit of that
girl of yours—Hazel, she said her name was; rather
an absurdly fanciful name, by the way: but there, I
won't carp, and it suits the child.  I confess to you
that she has taken me by storm; I have tried to
fight against such feelings, called myself a sentimental
old fool, in my second childhood, which is probably
the right explanation; but however that may be, the
feeling remains.  She came into this dreary house like
a breath of country, this Hazel of yours, and set me
thinking of woods, nuts, berries, and flowers.  Spirited,
too: gave as good as she got from the old man.  The
long and short of it is: will you allow the child to
stay with me for a short while?  I know I have no
claim upon you, no right to ask favours—I never for
a moment imagined it possible that I *should* ever
ask a favour.  That I have, and no small one, I grant,
is in itself an apology for the past—a holding out of
the olive-branch and all the rest of it.  Don't keep
me waiting long for your answer.  As I said before,
I am a sentimental old fool, in my dotage, and I am
lonely, or I should never have brought myself to the
pitch of courage necessary for writing to you—of
risking the probable humiliation of being denied what
I ask—which, I admit, is all I deserve at your hands.

"However you may decide concerning my request,
let there be peace between us for the girl's sake, and
for the sake of old times.  Let me once again have
the privilege of signing myself

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   "Your affectionate uncle,
       "PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH."

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   "HAZELHURST, BERKS,
       "*July* 13, 19—.

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"MY DEAR UNCLE,

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"It was with mingled pleasure and pain that I
read your letter.  I know full well you are lonely.  In
my girlhood I can remember you as a kindly, sociable
man—sociable in a domestic sense: I cannot remember
that you ever cared for society.  And it is unlikely that
one should so change in one's later years as to be
happy and content, with doors barred against one's
nearest kin; living on alone, entertaining hard thoughts
and, dear uncle, let me say unjust thoughts, of those
of whom one was once fond.  I gladly take the
extended olive-branch.

"Do not think me ungenerous, if I say that I cannot
make up my mind to allow Hazel to stay with you.
She is my only daughter, and your house, devoid as
it is of women-folk, is not the place I should choose
for a young girl.  May I suggest that she should come
to spend a day with you, and, need I say, dear uncle,
how pleased I should be if you would visit us here,
if you could bring yourself to put up with our plain
faring and simple ways?

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   "Your affectionate niece,
       "HELEN LE MESURIER.

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"P.S.—We can easily accommodate your servant."

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   "OSBORNE HOUSE, LANCASTER GATE,
       "*July* 14, 19—.

.. vspace:: 1

"MY DEAR HELEN,

.. vspace:: 1

"I must not grumble at your decision.  I will
think over the proposal you make, that I should come
down to Hazelhurst to stay a while.  In the meantime
send the girl on Friday next, if convenient to
you.  The carriage shall meet the train.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Your affectionate uncle
       "PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH.'

.. vspace:: 2

When Hazel heard she was asked to go and see
her uncle again, she was half pleased, half dismayed.
The plan she was evolving for helping Teddie was
at once made simpler: for it was to Uncle Percival
that she was about to turn for aid, if she could
sufficiently crush down her pride.  The very difficulty
of getting to him, had made her plan seem easy and
feasible.  But now that this difficulty was removed,
she found her little scheme of a sudden assume terrible
proportions.  However, there was no harm in going:
there was nothing *infra dig.* or humiliating in that;
and once there, she could feel her way as to what she
should confide and what leave unsaid.

When Paul Charteris heard of the prospective visit,
he begged to be allowed to drive Hazel to the station;
and Helen agreed that it was a long, hot, dusty walk
with which to begin a day's outing.

"I think," she added, "that you may take it for
granted that Hazel will like to drive—she is not here
to ask—yet she was a moment ago.  Where has she
gone?"

No, of course, Hazel was not there.  She had heard
Paul coming, and, with a murmured excuse to her
mother, had fled precipitately.

"By the way, dear, Paul proposes driving you to
the station," her mother told her, when the eventful
day arrived.

The girl flushed, and then grew pale.  "Oh, mother,"
she exclaimed.  "I should rather have walked.  Miles
could have taken me."

Helen looked her surprise.  "But it is so hot and
dusty, Hazel.  You will be quite tired by the time
you reach London.  I am sorry, dear, but I felt so
sure you would like to drive.  You so love driving,"
she added, puzzled, somewhat at a loss.

Then a thought struck her.

"Has Paul offended you in any way?" she asked
gently, of a sudden.  "Is it my fancy, or are you
avoiding him?"

"Oh no; he has not offended me," the girl made
answer hastily, evasively.  "But I love the walk, and—oh
well, it does not matter, motherling."  And the disturbed
young face kissed the anxious one reassuringly,
and Hazel went off to make herself ready.

It was a very demure young lady, whom Paul
handed into the trap, half an hour later; but, though
she had regained her outward composure, her spirit
had risen in revolt against her charioteer.  She felt
like a little snared hare, and was angry and shy all
at once.  She sat beside him mute, looking straight
before her, and Paul from time to time endeavoured
to get a peep at the face beneath the hat-brim.

"We will drive slowly," he remarked at length.  "If
I give Ben Dyson his head, we should be at the
station in ten minutes, and we have a good half-hour.
Isn't it glorious weather?"

Hazel admitted that it was, and again relapsed into
silence.

"You are very quiet," Paul observed presently.
"Won't you talk to me, Hazel?  I do hope you are
not thinking it presumptuous in me, that I asked to
drive you," he added anxiously.

Hazel's soft little heart began to melt.  After all, it
was very kind of him, and thoughtful.  How was he
to know she wanted to keep out of his way?  She did
not wish him to know; she hoped that, if by chance
he noticed that he saw less of her than usual just
now, he would put it down to mere coincidence.
Probably he had not noticed; she hoped not—she did not
wish to hurt or annoy him.

"No," she answered quickly.  Then, with shyness,
gratitude, and dignity all fighting together, she added:
"It was very kind of you—very.  But I am fond of
walking.  I—I thought you might have asked me,
and not mother," she concluded, with some severity.

Then Paul determined to have it out with her.
"Hazel," he asked, with grave directness, "answer me
truly.  Have I offended or hurt you in any way?"

He tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but it was
turned from him, her eyes in busy contemplation of
the hedgerow.

"No; oh no," she said hurriedly.  "You have never
seen Uncle Percival, have you?" she asked, bent upon
turning the conversation.  Paul was rather alarming,
when earnest and grave and unchatty.

"Hazel," he persisted, "tell me: Do you or do you
not like driving?"

"Oh, very much!" she exclaimed enthusiastically;
"and it is a long, dreary walk," she added, off her
guard.

Then came a terrible silence.  Paul was too generous
to take advantage of the slip, and Hazel, feeling an
irrepressible desire to know the worst that his face
might be expressing, glanced up hastily as she turned
to view, with absorbing interest, the farther hedge.

He was smiling quietly to himself and looking very
satisfied over something.  So much her brief look told
her, and she felt her resentment again rising.

"One can like driving, and yet have reasons for
wishing to walk," she said severely, again taking up
her weapon, but this time in some trepidation.

"Of course," he answered lightly.  "One might object
to the companionship of one's driver."

No response from Hazel.

"Is that it, Hazel?" he asked presently.

Still no reply.

"I have feared for some little time," he resumed,
"that you have been avoiding my society.  I cannot
tell you how the suspicion has grieved me.  I have
spent much time in wondering wherein I have erred.
Won't you tell me, Hazel, and set me right?"

Sympathetic Hazel was much distressed.  "You
have done nothing," she said earnestly, "nothing.  Please
do not think so again."

"But something has happened," he persisted, "and
I think I have a right to know what, as it concerns
myself so deeply.  Don't you admit my right?"

"It does not concern you," she repeated, and hesitated.
"One can offend oneself sometimes," she added
desperately, enigmatically.  "I offended myself a little
while ago.  You are not in the least to blame.  Oh,
please, do not talk of it any more."

A silence fell between them.  On reaching the station
Paul secured a compartment for Hazel's exclusive use.
This was easily done, as the early morning city train,
with its many passengers, was gone some time since,
and there were few to go by this.  A handsome tip
to the guard settled the matter: Hazel was to be
locked in.  Having seen her seated, he proceeded to
furnish her with all sorts of illustrated papers and a
dainty basket of grapes from a fruit-shop outside the
station.  Then, everything completed to his satisfaction,
he leaned upon the door of the carriage as she sat
within, amidst a very sea of papers.

"Don't look at that yet," he pleaded, in remonstrance,
as she took up a magazine.  "It is only two minutes
till time is up."

Hazel obediently laid down the journal.  It would
be unkind to go on puzzling him, now that she knew
he had noticed her avoidance of him, and was aware
that something had troubled her.  It would be particularly
ungracious too, after all this recent kindness.
Besides, it was easier here: he was farther away, and
she breathed more freely.  Surely she could look at
him once or twice, and talk in a natural manner?
She did look at him.  He was regarding herself
earnestly.

"Hazel," he said humbly, "am I forgiven for not
asking your permission, direct, for driving you?"

"Yes," Hazel said with dignity, rearranging the fruit
in the basket.

"Thank you," he answered, with courtly gravity,
"and—and you did not mind *me* driving you?"

"No," she admitted graciously.  The train beginning
to move, she handed him, through the window, half
her bunch of purple grapes, as an earnest of her
favour; and Paul, reading in the resolute little face,
that protest was useless, accepted the gift in meek
gratitude.

The short railroad journey was uneventful enough.
The girl sat comfortably, immersed in papers.  It is
true, her mind was slightly distracted by their number;
but when it had occurred to her to take them all with
her to her uncle's house, it mattered less what she
read first, the distressful doubt, that she might be
missing the best things, being thus overcome.  The
grapes she left untouched.  Grapes, she argued, were
not a fruit for persons in rude health like herself;
they were essentially a delicacy for invalids.  She would
try to take them home for her mother; but if her
uncle should chance to be specially fond of them, and
she caught him eyeing them in wistful greed—why,
then he should have them.  Was not the poor man
more than half an invalid?

The well-contented guard passed with respectful
salutation at every station, and lingered by her window—not
intrusively or in any way causing offence, but in
a manner that inspired confidence, and rendered
communication easy, should his charge wish to say or ask
anything.  Generally it was a broad back that presented
itself, a yard or two from the window.  Hazel could
not discover that he walked sideways, yet it was
wonderful how the back was suddenly *there*; also
was it marvellous how his numerous duties: seeing
luggage in and out of the vans, the shouting of
instructions, the assisting out and showing in of
passengers, even the closing of doors left open by
phlegmatic men or ladies in clean gloves, finally the waving
of the green flag—all seemed to be efficiently
accomplished in front of, or curiously near to, her own
compartment.

She had half a mind to give him the grapes: he
looked so very warm; but upon reflection she came
to the conclusion that a glass of beer, in which he
might indulge at the cost of a very small diminution
of Paul's tip, would be a more appropriate refreshment
for a hot railway guard than grapes, and in all probability
more to his taste.  Besides, her mother, even her
uncle, would appreciate them more.

At Paddington Station the guard could not do
enough for her.  He seemed quite distressed that more
was not required of him, and inclined to think Thomas,
Mr. Desborough's footman, officious!  He was gratified,
however, with the girl's prettily expressed thanks for his
care of her, and by her friendly little nod of farewell.

If Thomas experienced any feeling of surprise at
the surfeit of reading matter Miss Le Mesurier bade
him collect, he doggedly concealed any such emotion,
and followed the little lady down the platform with a
pile, carried traywise, between his two hands, bearing in
its centre the basket of grapes, to the waiting carriage.

A few minutes later she found herself entering the
same room, in which her uncle had received her before;
but this time she was not so fearful.

"You seem to have been plentifully provided with
entertainment for the journey," her uncle observed,
half rising to receive a timid kiss upon his left whisker,
his eye lighting upon the heap that a servant was
placing on a side-table.  "Is that young Edward
again, he of the buns, or are all your brothers given
to reckless expenditure?"

"It was not any of the boys this time," Hazel replied
laughing; "Mr. Charteris got them.  I could not finish
even one, so I thought I would bring them with me.
It seemed a pity to leave so many in the train."

"Mr. Charteris, eh?  That is the elderly Paul, is
not it?" the old man asked, chuckling.  He was in
high good-humour, more free from pain than had
been the case for some time, and bent upon enjoying
the society of this naïve girl, his great-niece, to whose
visit he had looked forward with a sense of pleasure
that surprised himself.

"Elderly?" Hazel questioned, at a loss.

"Why, yes," her uncle returned.  "You said he
must be thirty and more.  But you would not allow
he was bald."

Hazel had at once noticed the absence of wrappings
about the poor gouty foot, which to-day was encased,
like its fellow, in a comfortable slipper; and guessed,
in glad sympathy, that her uncle's health was much
improved since her last visit.  But she did not inquire
after it; she did not believe in the wisdom or kindness
of at once driving the poor man's thoughts back upon
the subject that too generally held them, and from
which, in all probability, they had not long strayed.

She seated herself in companionable proximity, and
fell to talking of family news and family doings, since
they two had last met.

"And your story?" her uncle asked presently.

"It came back," Hazel said, shaking her head
dolefully.  "I was particularly sorry, as I had a special
and good purpose to spend the money on."

"A new frock?" inquired her uncle.

Hazel opened her eyes at this frivolous sally; her
simple ideas upon dress began and ended with a few
yards of inexpensive material, made up by the provident
Mrs. Doidge—Hazel herself assisting with the
long seams.

"Oh no," she explained, "I was expecting *five pounds*
or so.  If you like, you shall read it some day—coming
fresh to it, you might be able to pick out faults that
have escaped mine and Teddie's notice.  But I very
much fear," she added dejectedly, "that it is all faults
from beginning to end, in which case, of course, it
would not patch up."

"I daresay your talents lie in other directions," her
uncle said, quite sympathetically for him.  "You play
and sing, don't you?"

"Yes," Hazel admitted.

"Thank Heaven you don't give the young ladies'
invariable answer 'A little,'" Mr. Desborough exclaimed
in approval.  "The girl who plays and sings 'a little'
is generally merciless in the number and length of her
attempts, and in the frequency with which she renders
them.  Go to the piano now and let me hear what
you can do."

Somewhat reluctantly, Hazel rose to do his bidding.
Like all sensitive temperaments, the girl was influenced
in a great degree by her surroundings and by the
atmospheric conditions of the moment.  Just now
she felt utterly disinclined for this sudden and most
unexpected performance of any musical ability she
might possess, with her Uncle Desborough as auditor.
The music-stool became a dock, and the little prisoner
was put upon her trial before a severe and critical judge.

She seated herself and played, badly enough, a bright
piece of Chopin—a sorry choice for nervous fingers
and distracted mind.  But under all his brusque, nay,
hard, exterior there lay somewhere deep down in his
breast a very human and sympathetic heart, a fact
too often overlooked or forgotten by his friends, and
consequently—there being no one to remind him of
it—forgotten by himself.  Hazel's friendly, gentle ways,
and sweet spontaneity had gone straight to the centre
of that long-slumbering organ, causing it to stir in
new and warm pulsations, to his own no small amazement.
He was better aware than the girl herself of
the height and depth to which such delicate sensibilities
as constituted her mental and spiritual composition,
could rise and fall; and knew well enough that the
present moment was inauspicious for showing her
talent in its true dimensions.

"That is a beautiful thing," was all he said.  "Play
me something more."

At that there whelmed over Hazel a sense of shame.
How unkind and unfair to make any one listen to
such poorly executed music—most of all her uncle,
who, she now gathered for the first time, was an artist,
an expert—for she had instantly detected the sympathy
in his tone—to whom, therefore, her best was due.
How unkind to let her nervous self-consciousness
entirely spoil that which, to such an one, might prove
a pleasure, if she but did her best—a pleasure that
she feared the old man all too seldom enjoyed in his
lonely life.  She played again, Grieg this time, with
her whole heart in the rendering; then, with a quick
change of mood and key, she began to sing a sweet,
plaintive ditty, her fervent little soul in her voice,
tender, exquisite; then another and yet another.

Tired at last, she rose from the piano.

"Good gracious, child," Uncle Desborough exclaimed,
amazed.  "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

"Mother used to teach me," Hazel responded simply;
"but I don't have any lessons now."





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.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

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   CHAPTER XV

.. vspace:: 2

Lunch was announced, and the presence of
servants did not permit of intimate talk; but,
once again settled in the library, Hazel opened fire,
very gently, it must be confessed.

"Uncle Percival," she began, "do you remember
giving me a ten-pound note last time I was here?"

"I am not likely to forget that incident," her uncle
replied drily, "and how royally you flung legacies at
my servant, after bestowing the note upon him—for
present expenses, it is to be presumed.  Well?"

"Well," Hazel said gravely, "on that occasion you
made it impossible for me to accept it for myself;
but since then you have been so kind, so—so courteous
that—Uncle Percival, will you give me five
pounds?"

"What for?" Mr. Desborough asked bluntly, but
with interest.

"Well," Hazel replied.  "I should have liked to
keep that a secret if I could; but it is quite impossible,
because as soon as I have got it, I must go out, and
you will want to know where I am going."

"Certainly," her uncle assented, "and you must have
the carriage."  He was looking amused now.  "Shopping,
I suppose?"

"No," Hazel said; "I want to leave it at Teddie's
lodging."

"Whew," whistled Uncle Percival.  "Sits the
wind in that quarter?  Is the boy out of pocket-money?"

"It is much more serious than that," Hazel told him
gravely.  "He has no money to pay his rent with,
and the landlady is beginning to—to kick, he says."

Mr. Desborough raised his hand and coughed, to
hide a smile.  "How has he got himself into this
mess?" he asked.  "I thought he had a rise lately."

"He was given a rise," Hazel admitted, "but he
says that from that time his difficulties began.  You
see," she went on confidentially, "he treated five friends
to a champagne lunch, and a theatre or two—I suspect
stalls; I did not want to worry him by asking; but
Teddie is so generous."

"The young jackanapes," ejaculated Mr. Desborough.

"I must be very, very careful to keep from him that
the money comes from *you*," Hazel said, with charming
frankness.  "If he knew, or even suspected, I should
not be able to get him to accept it."

"Upon my——," Uncle Percival began, but checked
himself.  "Well," he continued, with pseudo-humility,
that sat oddly upon him, "let him think it comes from
you, as indeed it does."

"But where should I have got it?" she asked, with
dramatic gesture.  "However," she added, "let him
puzzle, the truth will probably only strike him after he
has paid his debts—and then, though he may scold
me a little, it will be too late for him to refuse it."

"Well," Mr. Desborough said, "ring, and we will
order the carriage and leave the money at the domicile
of this grateful young man.  He seems to be of a very
independent character."

"For anything I know, he will save up and pay you
back," Hazel announced cheerfully; "but that can't be
helped, can it?  We cannot allow him to be turned
into the streets.  Did you say *we* would go?"

"If you don't object to an old man's company," he
returned.

"How nice," Hazel exclaimed, in genuine pleasure;
"and it will do you good, Uncle Percival."

"Humph," was his gruff response, more for the
sake of rendering less astonishing the unusual order to
the servant, who now appeared—to seem at least in
some way his ordinary self—than that he felt any
displeasure in the enterprise.  Hazel's undisguised
delight in the prospect of a drive in his, a
cross-grained old man's company, warmed his heart, till he
felt almost ashamed of a childlike eagerness to "be
off."

With very slight assistance from Thomas, Mr. Desborough
reached the carriage step, where he turned,
and with courtly politeness helped the lady to be
seated.  Hazel named the address in Baker Street,
and away they drove.

"How well a top hat suits you," Hazel said, eyeing
her august relative in frank admiration.  "You look
like an old Duke."

"Pshaw," he returned, much pleased, and furtively
twisting his moustache, "the fitter company then for
a little princess like yourself," he added, with
old-fashioned gallantry.

Hazel glanced in naïve amazement at her simple
cotton gown.  "A princess," she said amusedly,
"dressed in stuff that cost sixpence-three-farthings a
yard."

"No one would notice your dress with——" he
ended abruptly and changed the subject.  "With
that face," he had been on the point of adding, but
he disapproved of such outspoken compliments, and
was afraid of making the girl vain.  One of the chief
charms of Hazel's unusual beauty was her complete
unconsciousness of it—a charm that Percival
Desborough fully appreciated.

Arrived at the lodging-house, Hazel made her way
in alone.  "I shall not keep you long," she told her
companion, "but I have made up my mind to speak
to the landlady privately."

"I am Miss Le Mesurier," she announced to Mrs. Walters,
who herself opened to Hazel.

"The young gentlemen's sister, Miss, I presume?"
the woman inquired respectfully.  Indeed the sight
of the liveried servants and handsome bays quite
awed her, and set her wishing that she had sent
Caroline, despite her dirty working apron, to open
the door, instead of doing that service herself.

"Yes, and I should like to see their rooms, if you
please," Hazel returned, "and I have a letter that I
wish to leave on Mr. Edward's table."

"Certainly Miss, certainly," the landlady replied
soothingly, manifestly anxious to assure the visitor
that nothing could be more reasonable.

She led the way upstairs.  "This is the sitting-room,
Miss," Mrs. Walters informed her, throwing
open the first door on a landing above, "and that is
Mr. Gerald's room opening out of it—Mr. Edward
sleeps upstairs, as did Mr. Hugh before he left."

The girl looked about her with much interest.  It
was a poor little room enough, but clean and sunny.
Oilcloth covered the floor, with an occasional cheap
rug stranded here and there.  White lace curtains
draped the little bow window, and a struggling
geranium wrestled with existence in too small a pot,
with pale, caked earth, on a little flower-stand with
a green woolly mat.  The inevitable horsehair sofa
and chairs predominated, covered with the equally
inevitable white cotton crochet antimacassars, and a
hideously designed clock ticked harshly on the little
shiny black mantelpiece, behind which a wonderfully
dim and speckled mirror had its place.  Upon the
walls hung photographs of Mrs. Walters at all ages,
sometimes alone, sometimes one of a self-conscious
group, attired in ugly large-hipped costumes.

"I don't put many ornaments on the mantelpiece,
Miss," the landlady explained.  "The young gentlemen
likes to sit in them easy chairs, and to put their
feet on it."  She pointed out two chairs that looked
to Hazel something misnamed, seeing that they were
shiny and slippery and studded here and there with
bristles, with a large lumpy dent in the centre of
each.

A small sideboard, rather overloaded with wax fruit
under glass cases, stood against the wall opposite the
fireplace—Hazel suspected that some of these
"ornaments" had given way to the feet, now absent—and
a round table occupied the middle of the room.

"I suppose they have meals here?" Hazel asked,
regarding it critically.

"Breakfast and dinner, Miss; late dinner, if you
please.  They get their lunches out."

"Yes, I know," Hazel told her; "but I mean, do
they dine at *this* table?"

The piece of furniture in question, though standing
straight, somehow gave one the impression of ricketiness,
and the girl's warm heart was yearning over
the comfort of her brothers.

"Oh yes, Miss; and there is room and to spare on
it, now that Mr. Hugh is gone—*he* would always
have the plant-stand drawn up for the potatoes or
the second vegetable."

"I cannot stay long," Hazel announced; "I must
not keep my uncle waiting, but I wanted to ask you
a thing or two: I know you won't mind.  Are their
appetites good?"

Mrs. Walters raised her hands and eyes to the
ceiling, smoke-begrimed above the gas bracket.  "I
have never known their like for eating," she declared
solemnly.  "I have a small appetite myself," she went
on conversationally, bringing her eyes to the level of
Hazel's face, and her hands to her sides, "a little I
must have, but not enough to choke the system."

Hazel looked aghast.  "But do my brothers choke
their systems?" she asked, somewhat startled.

"No, Miss," the woman returned, hastening to
reassure her visitor.  "Oh no, but sometimes I can't
but think it would not take much more.  But there,"
she added, "it may be that I take so little myself."

"Yet you are not thin," the girl observed with
kindly interest.

This was delicately put, for in truth Mrs. Walters
was very distinctly stout.

The landlady shook her head.  "It is not fat," she
announced solemnly, pinching her own plump arm.

"No?" questioned Hazel gently, surprised.

"No," Mrs. Walters averred, with grave insistency,
"it is not fat.  I am blown out, you know, Miss.  Puffy,
as you might say."

Hazel crossed the room, and entered the tiny
bedchamber beyond.  So this was where he slept!  Dear,
old, plodding Gerald, how she hoped he was comfortable.
She made bold to sit on the bed to test its
springs.  There was not much response to her vigorous
bouncing.  Everything was clean and tidy, but there
was certainly no superfluity of luxury.  The sight of
the water-bottle put Hazel in mind of the distressed
geranium.  She took it up and made her way to the
outer room again.

"You do not mind?" she asked brightly of the
landlady.  "I am so fond of tending plants."

Mrs. Walters replied graciously enough, but
commented upon the amazing amount of water the plant
"took."  This expression of opinion went far to reassure
Hazel on the subject of the boys' systems; food and
drink were evidently subjects on which Mrs. Walters
was wont to exaggerate.

Teddie's bedchamber was the counterpart of Gerald's,
and Hazel had soon made her inspection of it.  There
was but one striking characteristic—not unusual to top
bedrooms—to mark it from the other: whereas in the
lower room all was concise, in pairs and sets, upstairs
the ewer did not match with the basin, whilst an
enormous tumbler overshadowed a diminutive water-bottle.
The mirror was cracked across, making one's
features appear horribly defective and out of drawing,
and the few cheap ornaments were for the most part
oddments—a detail which the girl's quick eye noted as
a slight improvement upon the austere, unbending
stiffness of the severe pairs, ranged upon mantelshelf and
toilet-table in Gerald's sanctum.

The loving sister smoothed and patted the little white
pillow—Mrs. Walters had remained without upon the
landing—and, from her position at the head of the bed,
took note of the exact view of the room that must
needs meet her brother's waking eyes in the morning
light.  It was not particularly cheerful: a rickety chest
of drawers, lacking two knobs; and above it, hung all
askew, a large card bearing the words, "Lord, remember
me, a sinner," was within his direct range of vision.  The
text was printed in silver letters, surrounded by a maze
of pink roses, whilst from behind a large cluster of the
same blossoms, upon the left of the card, there arose,
with amazing abruptness and lack of warning, an
emaciated church spire.  Hazel could only hope that Teddie
was not prone to lie long and reflect; or if he was, that,
for his own peace of mind, he kept a clear conscience.

She left her bank-note in its envelope, together with a
scribbled explanation, in a conspicuous place on the
little dressing-table.  It was conceivable that he would
prefer that Gerald should know nothing of it, so that
she would not leave it in the sitting-room.  She made
her way downstairs, followed by Mrs. Walters.  At the
house-door she turned to say good-bye.

"I hope I have not troubled you," she said.  "It
is good of you to let me see the rooms: one is so
interested, you know."

"Quite so, Miss," the landlady answered, "and I hope
you are pleased, Miss."

"I think they look fairly comfortable," Hazel returned,
somewhat cautiously, "and beautifully clean.  I know,"
she added, anxious to be just, "I know that you do not
ask a very heavy rent, so the boys must not expect
anything grand."

Again bidding her good-bye, Hazel tripped down the
steps, and seated herself in the carriage, which at that
moment had pulled up, after a turn or two up and down
the road.

"Well," her uncle said, "I am afraid, if you are to
catch the train your mother mentioned, it is about
time to be making our way to the station.  Do you
wish to return first, to fetch your papers and what not?"

"Oh, mother's grapes," exclaimed Hazel.  "Yes,
please, if there is time."

The order home was given, and soon, armed with
the same provision for her entertainment upon the
return journey, Hazel, still accompanied by her uncle,
was driven to the station.

"Come and see me again soon, my dear," the old
man said.  "And you are quite sure," he added,
lowering his voice, that the attendant footman might not
overhear his words, "you are quite sure that you won't
accept pocket-money for yourself?" for he had been
pressing notes upon the girl for her own use.

"Quite sure, thank you, uncle dear.  You must not
mind.  You see, I don't actually *need* it—Teddie did,"
and she kissed the wrinkled cheek that was presented
to her with real warmth.  "Good-bye."

And once again the old man was left alone.

It was in the loneliness of the hours that followed
that Percival Desborough made up his mind to go
to Hazelhurst.

Alighting from the train, Hazel's eyes encountered
Paul Charteris.  She looked up and smiled in frank
affection, at once setting his anxiety at rest respecting
his reception: for he had not asked permission to take
the little lady home.  Intimating by word and gesture
that the guard was welcome to the very considerable
amount of literature within the carriage, Hazel followed
her charioteer out of the station, and was soon once
more seated beside him in the trap.  But alas for his
new-found peace and elation of spirit, the girl's manner
quickly returned to the determined evasion of eye, of
question, of himself generally; and again Paul was
profoundly troubled.  Almost in silence they reached home.

.. vspace:: 2

Things had continued in this wise for many long
days, when the young man, coming to call at Hazelhurst,
chanced upon Hazel in the flower-garden.  She
made as if to flee, but the next moment, recollecting
herself, she stood her ground, and awaited his approach.

"It is my birthday to-day," Paul announced, as they
shook hands, feigning not to heed her timorous
demeanour.

"Is it really?" she exclaimed, much interested.
Hazel was young—a birthday was still a great event
to her.  "I wish you many happy returns of the day.
Mother is in the house; shall we go to her?"

"Certainly," Paul answered, and hesitated.  "You
will not give me a tangible token of your well-wishing?"
he asked wistfully.

Hazel looked her amazement.  "How can I?" she
questioned.  "I did not know in time."  How very odd
and—and bold of Paul to ask for a birthday present!
One did not ask one's nearest relatives!

"It would not take you long to gather me a flower,"
he answered, unashamed, although he read something
of her thoughts.  "I should prize that immensely."

Hazel turned at the suggestion, in a little flutter
of eagerness, to select a rosebud, or whatever chanced
to look most fitting, wherewith to honour the occasion;
and after some diligent search was about to pluck,
when of a sudden something stayed her hand.  In an
instant the sweet, unconscious child was gone, and a
dignified maiden stood in her stead.

"You may take anything you fancy," she said.
"Miles won't mind."

The young man stood appalled.  "You—you won't
give me one?" he expostulated.

"You can't want it very much if you find it too much
trouble to take one for yourself," she answered evasively.

"Hazel," he said, much aggrieved, "you have given
me flowers before.  Don't you remember the little
bunch of Shepherd's Eye?"

Yes, Hazel remembered—she was minded how glad
she had been that he thought them so pretty, and had
asked for them so eagerly.  He was just as eager
now—he was fond of flowers.  How was it that somehow
she could not bring herself to give him one?  It was
so little to ask of her!  What had happened—what
had come between her and this dear friend?  What
was it?  It had been much happier then.  Surely he
was the same?  Yet something was not the same,
somehow things were different.  She looked up: there
was troubled questioning in the wistful brown eyes.
Was she relenting?

"You will give me a flower?" he asked eagerly,
drawing a step nearer.

His ardour frightened her.  Had he spoken lightly
and affected carelessness—had he managed to hide,
or disguise, much of the fervour that marked his
simple request, she would perhaps, though troubled
and perplexed at her own reluctance, have complied
with it.  She drew back as he advanced and put her
hands behind her, looking half timid, half defiant.

"No," she answered determinedly.

Paul stood regarding her thoughtfully.  "Why not?"
he asked at length, bluntly.

"I—I don't know," Hazel murmured, truthfully
enough.  "Won't you please come to the house?"

For a moment they stood thus, regarding one another in
silence: the brown eyes still in wistful questioning, the
manly blue-grey ones half-angry, half-sad, wholly puzzled.

"I think not to-day," he said at last.  Raising his
cap, he turned upon his heel, and, retracing his steps,
was soon lost in the shadow of the wood.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI

.. vspace:: 2

Two days later, at the same hour, Paul Charteris
was seated in Helen's drawing-room.

"She is so young," Helen was pleading; "such a
child."

Paul sat in silence, big, manly, and troubled withal.

"I feel such an unutterable brute to speak to you
about it," he returned at length.  "If you knew how
I have struggled to keep it to myself; but it is too
much, it goes beyond my strength."

He groaned, turning his eyes from the delicate face,
in remorse at the conflicting emotions he had raised.

If only Hubert Le Mesurier were alive!  There
would be nothing about which to hesitate; they would
talk as man to man.  But the widowed Helen, so
gentle, so defenceless, seeking only what was best for
her child.  What a brute he was!  And yet, speak he
must: he could no longer contain himself.  He knew
well enough that the next time he encountered Hazel
alone he must demand an explanation of her strange
manner towards himself.  He felt it was highly
improbable he could see Hazel without opening his heart
to her.  It was but right to warn Helen as to how
things stood with him: it had become essential that
Helen should be told all there was to tell.

"Paul," she said at last, very gently, "you must go
away for a time."

Paul's face grew pale.  He regarded her in mute
consternation.

"It is for her good," she went on.  "Does not that
reflection make you willing to go—to bear a few
months' banishment?"

Poor Paul, his elbow on his knee, his head in his
hand, could only groan aloud.

"Do you mean I am to go, uncertain of my fate,
before I speak to her?" he asked; and the pain in his
eyes made Helen waver.

"Would it not be harder afterwards?" she asked,
seeking to argue with him.  "Suppose—mind, I do
not know my child's heart towards you, though of this
I am sure, that she is fond of you in her innocent, frank
way—but suppose she—she gives you permission to
stay—how can you go then, Paul?"

"I could go then," he cried vehemently, "far more
easily than now, when all is uncertainty and torture.
It would be hard; but I could go if need be," he added
wistfully, "if you demand such trial of me."

"It is not to try you," she made answer.  "It is for
Hazel's good, that she may remain settled and
undisturbed, that she may have time for reflection and
to learn her own mind."  She paused.  Hazel's voice
was heard trilling a light air as she passed through
the hall.

"You mean that I may speak?" the young man
asked, springing to his feet, an eager flush rising to
his face.  "She will never learn her own mind toward
me if I do not speak—she will never think of me in
that way.  I should only return to find things as they
are.  You will let me speak?"

The two regarded one another for some moments—the
two beings who, of all the world, loved Hazel best.
She, with that wonderful mother-love that denies self,
that sacrifices all to the good and the happiness of the
child, that asks no return; he, with the strong man's
heart-whole devotion, yearning, protecting, longing to
have and to hold and to cherish, through all changes,
but fiercely demanding love's tribute of love.

Helen sighed softly, and smiled.

"Go, then," she said.  "I expect you will find her
in the wood.  And, Paul, if she does not know herself—if
she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do
not despair.  Be hopeful, and leave things to time to
put right."

In two strides the young man was beside her.
Raising her hand to his lips, he reverently kissed the
slender fingers, and without a word turned and left
her.

As he walked through the wood, Paul Charteris soon
descried the girl's form, flitting now here now there,
now eluding his sight like some will-o'-the-wisp, strayed
far from home during the night, and thus overtaken by
day—a will-o'-the-wisp made visible to the eye now
that its light was extinguished, or, rather, absorbed by
the sunshine.  Of a sudden he came upon her.  She
was standing in the middle of the clear space that
commended itself to the purpose in hand: she was
feeding her pets, dispensing crumbs of bread and cake
around her.  A ringdove cooed upon her shoulder,
whilst a pair of squirrels frisked about her feet.

"What a little witch she is!" Paul mused as he
watched, himself unseen.

He tried to call "Hazel," but throat and tongue
refused their office.  Instead, he advanced and
discovered himself.

Hazel nodded to him brightly.

"Did you come to see them fed?" she asked.  "Are
they not fascinating?"

"I came to see you," he made answer.  "Hazel, I
have something very special to say.  Will you listen?"

Hazel looked about her, the brightness dying from
her face.  There was no escaping him now.  The most
direct path to the house he himself blocked.  If she
turned down a by-way he would but follow.

"Will you listen, Hazel?" he repeated.

"Yes," she said, reluctant, half defiant.  "Tell me
now, whilst I feed the birds," she added imperiously.

"No," Paul rejoined stoutly, "it is much too
important and—and serious.  I will wait till you have
finished."

Although the girl had practically completed her
task when he came upon her, the last few crumbs
were scattered, one by one, from the small yet
seemingly inexhaustible stock still left.  And then, when
he thought the time had come, when all seemed ready,
Hazel sought to fix his attention upon a hundred-and-one
different objects—this plant, that tree, the brightness
of a pet squirrel's eyes, the bushiness of another's
tail, the soft grey plumage of the wood pigeon.  Would
Paul like one on his shoulder?  She believed she could
coax it there.  Paul was soon nearly frantic, fearful
of offending or scaring her, divided between risking
the one or the other, torn with indecision, yet determined
throughout not to let so fitting an opportunity slip by
ungrasped.  Hazel had no faintest clue as to how he
was minded: she only knew that he was grave again,
and, though she had not so much as given one glance
at his face, she knew his eyes to be serious and deep
and unfathomable.  In a word, he was in that tiresome
mood that somehow troubled her.  She must divert
his attention from herself, she must distract his mind
with all manner of interests; and these the wood amply
afforded.

"Look at that green caterpillar," she exclaimed.
"We might——"

"Hazel," Paul said desperately, interrupting her, "will
you listen?  It is so important—to me."

"You said 'serious' before," Hazel rejoined, a trifle
flippantly.  Her back was turned upon him.  She
began busily to collect fir-cones.

"I want to tell you that I love you," the young man
said at last, simply and quietly.  "I love you, Hazel."

"Thank you," Hazel said in polite good faith, half
turning a flushed cheek toward him.  "It is—it is very
good of you.  But if you don't mind, try not to feel
serious about it.  Of course I like to hear you say
it—just once; but I knew it, I—I mean I always felt you
were fond of me."

"Child, child," Paul murmured.  Then aloud: "Are
you fond of me?"

"Oh yes," she answered frankly.  "You know I am.
But it is not a very usual thing to ask a lady," she
added reprovingly.  "Teddie says you have to guess
at a lady's feelings.  By the way, have you had tea?"

Despite his emotion, a smile of genuine amusement,
mingled with exquisite tenderness, played about Paul's
mouth as his eyes dwelt upon the little kneeling figure,
so determinedly turned from him.  He must try again.
He did not want to startle her, he must endeavour to
make his meaning dawn slowly upon her mind; and
when he had achieved this, what, ah what would her
answer be!  Had the girl's feelings toward him only
to be awakened?  Was love dormant?  Or—unspeakable
anguish was in the thought—was there no love within
her breast for him?  He must know—he must know:
the pain of uncertainty was becoming more than he
could bear.  He recalled Helen's words and found
comfort in them.  "If she does not know herself, if
she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not
despair, be hopeful, and leave things to time to put
right."

"Hazel," he said gently, "I am so anxious.  I should
be so grateful to you if you would stand up and—and
give me your undivided attention, just for two minutes."

The girl complied, reluctant, wondering, half uneasy
at the appeal in his voice, half curious.  She stood
before him with folded hands and waited.

Paul came a step nearer.  "Hazel, it *is* a usual
question to ask, when a man loves a girl as I love you,
with all his heart, with all his soul; when he feels
he must have her love, or live without it in misery all
his days.  Then he *must* ask her if she could ever love
him."

For the first time Hazel looked up in his face, her
own paling.

"Is this—is this a *proposal*?" she asked, awe and
solemnity widening and darkening her eyes.  "Do you
mean—you want me to—to actually *marry* you?"

Paul's lips twitched at the corners.  "Yes," he said
stoutly.  "Tell me—tell me that you will."

There was a pause, passed in agony by Paul, in
amazed reflection by Hazel.

"Child, answer me," he said at length hoarsely,
possessing himself of her hands.

"I might, after years and years," she said consideringly.
"But, Mr. Charteris, I never dreamed you were a—that
you felt like that.  You are not at all a usual
sort."  Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his
looks, his sighs, his serenades.  How troublesome he
was to manage; how he would always try to get her
to himself, when she was longing for the society of
others; how he would hold her hand too long at
every possible opportunity.  That was the lover one
read of in stories, one saw depicted in pictures.
But—but she began to acknowledge to herself that it was
possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his
face, his eyes all strenuous, all—all.  And he had this in
common with the lover of her ideas: he held her
hands—both! as if he would never let them go.

Hazel tried to free her hands.

"Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you
love me."

Silence fell between them.

"If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her
words, "does it mean I must—does it mean I have got
to marry you?"

"It would mean that some day you might love me
enough to like to marry me," Paul answered boldly
and simply.  "But never mind that now, Hazel.  Just
tell me whether you love me, even—even a little, and I
will wait so patiently for that little to grow."

Again she fell to reflecting.  "I am fond of you," she
said earnestly, "and, yes, perhaps you could call it—call
it—just a very little, you know.  But I don't know
why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and now
will you please let go my hands?"

"Then you care for me—a little?" the young man
asked joyfully.

"Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then,
timidly, half in exultation, half in fear, "Am I an
engaged woman now?" she asked.

"If you will accept me as your lover, yes," Paul
answered.  He was all aglow with happiness.  It is
true that she was timid, shrinking, only now half
conscious of what he meant, of what he offered.  Yet
through it all, nay, because of that very timidity, he felt
that she cared for him—a little, and a great yearning
filled his soul to make that little much.  As yet he must
be content that she had not repelled him; for, child
as she was, Paul felt assured that the sweet, strong
woman-being within her would have rejected his love
with none of the uncertainty with which she had half
accepted it; would have rejected it finally and with
decision—for the time being, at all events.  How utterly
adorable she was, this queen among girls, this innocent,
but half awake, maiden!  How could he ever deserve
her—how make himself worthy?  What an inestimable
privilege was his: to teach her love.  An intense, an
infinite tenderness was astir in the young fellow's strong,
manly nature.  Ah, how patient, how gentle he must
be!  Nor could he ever be patient and gentle enough.
He would bear that in mind, always.

"Hazel, my little love," he murmured.  "Look in my
eyes and tell me once more that you love me—a little.
Say: 'Paul, I love you, and presently I shall love you
more.'"

Hazel raised her eyes obediently, but only to his
collar stud.  "I—I love you a little," she stammered.

"You won't look at me?" he pleaded.

"I *am* looking, hard," she averred, blinking at his
chin.

"And you won't say, 'Paul'?"

"It would be too silly," she objected, "when you are
here, attending to me."

He longed to seal the compact between them with a
kiss, a solemn, sacred kiss; but he felt the time was
not yet.  She had given him so much!  Just now he
must not ask for more.  He must respect her sweet
delicacy; he must not dismay or trouble her.  He would
be patient, gentle, all unselfish.  In this wise he might
grow to be worthy of her love, and, worthy, might
gain it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII

.. vspace:: 2

To return to the day of Hazel's visit to her brother's
lodgings, Teddie's incredulous delight, when he
came home to the rooms in Baker Street, and had
toiled up to the little top chamber, somewhat
dispirited, to find the bank-note upon his dressing-table,
may be imagined.  He eagerly seized upon and read
the few lines that Hazel had written in explanation.
They did not tell him much; only that he might spend
the money with an easy mind; asking him to try to
keep free from debt in the future, as next time she
would find it far more difficult to help him.

Although Teddie knew of his sister's visit to their
great-uncle, the thought never entered his head that he could
possibly owe this very opportune aid to that
circumstance.  After much silent puzzling—for he was not
going to confide in Gerald on the subject—he came
to the conclusion that Hazel had, probably through
the medium of Miles, sold her gold bangle, and so
provided her distressed brother with pecuniary assistance.
Mentally dubbing her a little brick, Teddie
proceeded to make his toilet for the evening, with more
zest than he had pursued any other of the day's duties.
He poured a plentiful supply of water into the basin
with the plain red band around its girth, from the ewer
that was besprinkled with blue flowers.  Removing his
coat and collar, and thrusting his hands into his trousers
pockets, he plunged his hot face into its cool depths,
whilst with wide-open eyes he glared glassily at the
bottom of the basin, some two inches from his nose, in
seemingly futile wrath; then rolled them from side to
side in fierce, yet vacant, contemplation of his
environments, apparently much to his refreshment.

He emerged blowing like a grampus, and fell to
rubbing his rosy countenance vigorously with the
somewhat harsh little towel of Mrs. Walters's providing.
He seemed to get an astonishing amount of satisfaction
from these drastic measures, only desisting when his
arms ached and his face was aglow with the friction.
After belabouring his curly head severely with
surprisingly stiff hair-brushes, he prized open the handleless
little top drawer of the chest, which had been pushed
injudiciously far in the shutting, with his pocket-knife—a
broken, rusty, and blunt implement, long since
dedicated to such uses—and supplied himself with a
fresh collar and a change of tie.  He would have liked
to make a more complete toilet, for the Le Mesurier
boys religiously dressed for the evening; but dressing
meant a fresh shirt, and it frequently fell out that
toward the end of the week clean shirts were scarce.
To-day was Friday; the linen would be home
to-morrow, and Teddie knew without looking that the
first long drawer, boasting two knobs and devoted to
the warding of his underclothing, was devoid of this
particular article of wearing-apparel; for he had
recklessly indulged himself this week.

So, perforce content with his hardy ablutions and
slight changes of attire, he descended to the little
sitting-room, to find Gerald already ensconced in his
easy-chair, his slippered feet duly in place against the
mantelshelf, luxuriously smoking an attenuated cigarette.
He, too, had regulated his toilet with skill and sagacity,
in accordance with the day of the week; but, more
favoured than Teddie—for Gerald was never in arrear
with his half of the rent—he had used a pint milk-jug
of hot water sent up from the kitchen from the landlady,
by Caroline the hand-maid.

"By Jove, you look pink!" Gerald remarked lazily,
as his brother seated himself in the opposite chair
and settled his feet in position.  "Cold water, I
suppose?"

"I prefer it," Teddie answered, briefly but
good-humouredly.  "Whew, I am peckish!  I hope dinner
will be punctual."

The cloth was already spread, and in a few minutes
Caroline entered the room with a loaded tray, somewhat
short of breath.

.. _248:

Gerald carved the mutton, Teddie served the vegetables.

"Oh, if you please, sir," Caroline said before retiring,
"missis says will you please to knock on the floor with
yer 'eel when ye're ready for the sweet.  It is my
evening out, and missis says as 'ow I can get ready
now and she'll answer yer."

She addressed herself to Gerald, but looked the while
deprecatingly at Teddie, who, though perhaps the more
severe of the two young gentlemen, and more particular
to have things to his liking, was her favourite, even
while she stood in greater awe of him.

"Very well," Gerald returned; "but why doesn't
she—Mrs. Walters—ask us to ring as usual?"

"She's a-sitting in the cool, sir—she's in the
first-floor front sitting-room."  Caroline almost whispered
this solemn circumstance; for the first-floor front
sitting-room was a marvel of shining lustres, hunting
scenes, and crimson and gold furniture.  "She mightn't
'ear the *bell*, but she's just under yer 'eel."

"All right," Gerald rejoined, and nodded dismissal.
"We will make her hear."

"Don't be late home, Caroline," Teddie put in,
warningly.  "Back by ten sharp, mind."

"Yes, sir," Caroline answered docilely.

"And tell your young man from me that you are
a good enough sort," he continued; "and I would say
more, but I don't want to make you vain."  He began
to attack his dinner with youthful ardour and interest.

"Thank you, sir," the girl answered deferentially.
She left the room, quite overwhelmed with Mr. Edward's
compliment, a broad smile of pleasure pervading her
countenance.

"You are very genial to-night," remarked Gerald
presently.

The two had by this time made considerable inroad
on their somewhat astonishing platefuls, and were at
leisure to take matters a little more easily.

"Am I?" asked Teddie, gratified.  "I feel genial."  And
he beamed about the room.

Without further comment the two finished with the
mutton, and began a solemn tattoo upon the floor with
their heels; becoming so interested in the martial
sounds produced with military precision and kettledrum-like
effect, that they only desisted on becoming aware
that Mrs. Walters was calling desperately from below,
"I'm comin'."

The "sweet" of which Caroline had spoken proved
to be baked sago.  When the landlady reappeared to
remove this dish, Teddie, with well-assumed
carelessness, addressed her.

"By the way, Mrs. Walters," he said, "I believe I
have an account to settle with you."  He drew from
his pocket the five-pound note, and handed it to the
mollified woman.  "Give me the change at your
convenience," he added; "don't trouble now."

Gerald, from his armchair, turned and regarded his
brother in speechless amazement.  Recovering somewhat,
he glanced with apprehensive interest at Teddie's
waistcoat pocket, trying to ascertain whether the huge
Waterbury watch—which, by the way, if sold, might
bring the owner half-a-crown—was still there.  The
silver chain was in its place, and he fancied he heard
the tick of that strong and renowned piece of
mechanism.

"Where the deuce——" he began, but Teddie frowned
at him warningly.

"And I wanted to tell you that I wish to give a
dinner to two or three friends one day next week,"
he went on, quite informally.  "I think it would be
more homelike to give it here, and less expensive.
You could get in some cooked things, so as not to
have too much to do: a meat pie, for instance.  You
could manage soup, fish, and a joint, could not you?
One entrée would do, game or something.  There
only remain the sweets and the savoury, cheese and
dessert, and, of course, coffee."

"I should have to get in help," Mrs. Walters
announced; "me and Caroline could never manage alone."

"No?" Teddie asked.  "Not a simple little dinner
like that?  However, that is your look-out.  Get all
the help you want; and, by the way, have you
another table that we could shove up against this,
and cover the two with one cloth?"

When Mrs. Walters withdrew Teddie sat him down
to write his invitations.

"It is only old Hugh," he told his brother, who was
puffing at his pipe in silence and in seeming
insouciance, but was in truth very anxious to know
the meaning of Teddie's sudden affluence.  "It has
bothered me all along that the old fellow left us
without our giving any farewell ceremony."

Gerald grunted.  "Who is to meet him?" he asked.

"Well, I thought old Hamilton might like to come,"
Teddie answered.  "He has seen Hugh once or twice,
and has taken a liking to him."

Gerald nodded.  "Any one else?" he asked.

"What do you say to having Charteris?  He does
run up to town for a dinner occasionally."

The notes of invitation were written and posted,
and, before going down to Hazelhurst next day, Teddie
had another interview with Mrs. Walters.

"It is settled for Monday night," he told her.  "I
don't like to have these things hanging on.  As far
as I know at present, there will be three guests.  You
have got about two pounds in hand—refund yourself
from that if the stuff makes you out of pocket.
Anything over and above you can mention in the bill."

But once more at home, Teddie got the whole truth
out of Hazel, and dire was his wrath.  He partially
forgave his repentant little sister on hearing the history
of her first visit to her uncle, and the fate of the
former note.

"And we are such good friends now," Hazel told
him, "that, although I could not possibly take anything
for myself, I felt I could ask for you, Teddie:
I was so miserable about you."

Teddie was mollified, when he learned that his sister
had informed her uncle, that she should endeavour to
keep secret how she came by the money.  But Monday
afternoon found him seated in the library of the house
in Lancaster Gate, in conversation with that august
relative.

Mr. Desborough's surprise was extreme when the
curly-headed youth was announced, and, truth to tell,
he was very much interested and amused in the
subsequent conversation.

"I never expected to be sitting *here*," Teddie
declared ingenuously.  "But as I believe there is some
talk of your visiting us at Hazelhurst, I don't mind
meeting you half-way."

"Thank you," Mr. Desborough said drily.

"As to what has brought me here," Teddie went
on, "you may perhaps guess.  I have only just learned
from my sister, that she actually asked you for money
with which to help me in my—in my private affairs."

"What then?" Uncle Percival asked gruffly as
Teddie paused.

"What then?" his nephew repeated hotly.  "You
don't suppose for a moment that I can sit down in
that knowledge without making a protest, do you?"  He
regarded his uncle fiercely, and awaited an answer.

"I don't know, I am sure," Mr. Desborough replied
at length.  "I have forgotten how I should have felt
at your age.  I think I should have taken anything
I could get."

"I don't believe you," Teddie rejoined warmly.
"You may be a cantankerous old man, but I wouldn't
make myself out worse than I am if I were you."

Mr. Desborough was about to expostulate angrily
with Teddie on this somewhat intemperate expression,
but when he had recovered sufficient breath for the
purpose Teddie was, with bland indifference to his
feelings, pursuing the conversation.

"I shall, of course, pay it back with all the speed
in my power," he said.  "Unfortunately it is already
spent, or you should have the very note back.  But
I won't leave this house more in your debt than I
can help."  He rose, and, ransacking his pockets,
produced four shillings and fivepence halfpenny, which
he proceeded to place beside his uncle.

Mr. Desborough had much ado not to break into a
hearty laugh.  He began to think that the young
fellow was as pleasing in his way as his little favourite,
Hazel.

"Look you here, my boy," he returned, bent upon
pacifying his irate nephew, "give an old man the
pleasure of feeling he is of some use to his young
relatives."

"I can't do it," Teddie declared, with, however, a
softened mien, for he was touched by the unmistakable
note of appeal in the old man's voice; "but I am forced
to accept what is already spent on the rent and on
to-night's dinner."

"Ah!" Mr. Desborough exclaimed.  "To-night's
dinner, eh?  What are you going to have?"

Teddie rehearsed the menu, then began to explain
matters further, as he became conscious of his uncle's
extreme surprise.

"Oh, we don't fare like that every evening, simple
though it is," he said in self-justification.  "This is
an entertainment long owed to my brother Hugh, and
a couple of friends are asked to meet him."

Silence fell between them.  Once the old man
cleared his throat and was about to speak, but checked
himself.  When he did speak, he had evidently put
something of moment aside.

"What shall you give them to drink?" he asked, in
kindly interest.

"Whisky and soda or bottled beer," Teddie told him
with prompt decision.  "I did hope to give them a
glass of decent claret, but that is off, of course."

Again a silence.

"Look you here, my boy."  Uncle Desborough
seemed bent upon having it out.  Fear of rebuff had
caused him to hesitate, and a strange sense of the
unwonted good-fellowship of what he was about to
propose made him awkward.  "What do you say to
asking me to your dinner?  Would not that square
matters?"

"We shall be delighted," Teddie made answer, very
stiffly.  "But, of course, we cannot let one of our
guests pay for his dinner."

"An old fellow like myself won't be in the way?"
Mr. Desborough asked.

The half-wistful tone of the question, meant to be
brusque, was not lost upon his nephew.

"Not at all," he replied, more genially.  "We shall
be glad of your company.  A quarter to eight, then,
to-night."

A few hours later Gerald and Teddie were receiving
their four guests with hearty welcome.  The amazement
of Gerald and Hugh when Mr. Desborough was
announced can hardly be conceived, for Teddie had
mischievously kept dark the circumstance of his coming.
Their innate good-breeding and natural courtesy
prompted them quickly to overcome the tendency to
stand petrified with open mouths; for after only a
momentary pause they were shaking hands warmly,
as if their uncle's condescension were the most natural
thing in the world.

"You are Paul Charteris, of whom my niece Hazel
spoke?" Mr. Desborough asked of the latest arrival.

Paul flushed at the sudden mention of that name.

"Yes," he returned, "I have the good fortune to be
a near neighbour of the Le Mesuriers."

It was marvellous to witness the little party being
chivied about by the bustling landlady and her handmaid,
till at length, finding it impossible to congregate
about the hearth or by the window, the expedience
began to dawn upon the group of dispersing singly.
Thus they sat in formidable array round the walls of
the room, whilst Hugh and Mr. Desborough conversed
amicably together, seated side by side upon the
horsehair sofa.

Presently Mrs. Walters, very red and important,
beckoned Gerald out of the room to discuss with him
the subject of chairs; for, beside the two miscalled
easy-chairs, there were but two others in the boys'
sitting-room, and under no circumstances could the
landlady of the Baker Street rooms be induced to
lend any of the gold and crimson furniture of the
"first-floor front."  She always said it would be
"robbing Peter to pay Paul," but it was natural that
her tenants should not see the connection, or, seeing,
bring themselves to regard the matter in that light.
This evening she was willing to make a great concession.
Mr. Gerald might have the music-stool from the "first-floor
front."  It was against her rules, as he knew, but
the company must be seated somehow, and the music-stool
did not belong to a suite, so that it could be
replaced readily, should any mischance overtake it.

The boys were, of course, at liberty to use their
bedroom chairs as they pleased; so that when the
guests were finally seated, Mr. Desborough and
Mr. Hamilton occupied the two chairs of the sitting-room;
Paul Charteris was accommodated with the cane chair
from Gerald's bedroom, its somewhat low stature being
at once remedied and rendered easy by a pillow; Hugh
was perched upon the music-stool, whilst Gerald and
Teddie affably dispensed hospitality, seated side by
side on the sofa, which had been drawn up for that
occasion.

"I am awfully sorry," Gerald said, "there is nothing
much to offer in the way of drink."  He glanced
apologetically at the little sideboard, where bottled
beer, whisky, and syphons of soda-water were arranged.

Uncle Percival cleared his throat.

"I—er—took the liberty," he said—and he glanced
deprecatingly at Teddie—"I took the liberty—I hope
an old uncle may be excused—of bringing some wine
with me.  My servant is still below, if you like him
to bring up some sherry for the soup."

"Uncle Percival, you are a brick!" Hugh exclaimed,
whilst Teddie gave his august relative an approving nod.

Thomas answered the bell, with decanter and glasses.
A well-trained servant was he; for nothing could
exceed his grave and deferential respect as his eyes
lighted upon his master, seated upon the left hand—for
Hugh was the guest of the evening—of the two
flushed and eager young hosts upon the sofa.  Yet
the scene must of a surety have put a severe strain
upon the risible muscles of any human being,
necessitating a strong curb upon his sense of humour.
Burgundy was handed round with the joint, and
presently a suggestive "pop" from the region of the
sideboard brought Mr. Desborough's eyes to meet
Teddie's guiltily.

"Uncle, you are a trump," declared Teddie, slapping
his uncle upon the shoulder.

Gerald rose and, leaning over Teddie, solemnly and
in silence gripped his uncle's hand.

"I thought it might help with the evening's joviality,"
murmured the recipient of these attentions.  "My dear
fellows, what an excellent dinner you have provided—my
compliments to your cook."

Which was tactful of Uncle Desborough.

Presently Paul Charteris rose and asked whether he
had permission to propose a toast to the guest of the
evening.  Hugh modestly cast down his eyes as the
company responded to the call with enthusiasm; Teddie
meekly petitioning Providence that his shadow might
never grow less.

Hugh rose to return thanks.  He made a short
speech, to the effect that, though happy in the capacity
of Charteris's private secretary, he could never cease to
regret that he had broken up the happy trefoil.  He
was half sorry that his brothers had not asked *his*
whilom boss to this festive gathering, but that, perhaps
after all, they had done rightly: Mr. Hooper might not
have cared to come.  He and Hugh had never had the
luck to hit it off together as his brother Edward and *his*
superior, Mr. Hamilton, had always done.  Mr. Hooper
was one of those men who did not appreciate the
earnest endeavours and well-spent energy of the best
years—or rather of a best year—at all events nine or
ten months of a fellow's life.  He had never liked or
encouraged his, Hugh's, taste for drawing.  He
concluded by expressing his pleasure at finding himself
in such thoroughly genial and sympathetic company,
and he heartily returned his brother Edward's wish
concerning his shadow—might all their shadows expand,
if there must be any change in them.  He begged to
propose the health of their uncle, Percival Desborough.

Mr. Desborough acknowledged the courtesy and
begged to be excused from either rising or speaking.
His gout troubled him somewhat, and he had no gift
for putting choice words together.  He could but say
he was sincerely glad to be among them all that night.

Upon this Teddie rose and asked the company to
drink to his superior, Mr. Hamilton, to whom he had,
he feared, in times gone by, been somewhat of a trial
in his wild days.  That, however, was all over.  He
had grown steady and was better understood than of
yore.  Nothing could exceed the happiness of the
relations now existing between them.

Mr. Hamilton rose, was about to speak, but instead
he broke into a hearty laugh and slapped the steady
young man on the back.  He declared that he would
not say more than that he heartily concurred with all
that his young host had deposed, and that he sincerely
reciprocated his young host's feeling towards himself.

Gerald rose and said that since no one seemed
inclined to name him, he thought he would waive
ceremony and drink to himself if they would all join
him, which they did amidst shouts of laughter.  Gerald
proceeded to remark that if he might be permitted he
toasted his fellow-host Edward, more generally known
as Teddie, who had taken upon himself almost the
entire trouble and responsibility of the little dinner
they were now enjoying.  The company responded
with cheers, waxing so warm that at length Teddie
felt it incumbent on him to rise modestly and bow,
which he did, somewhat bashfully.

He was about to reseat himself when Gerald gave
him a sharp dig in the ribs and murmured a word, lost
to the company amid the general turmoil.  Teddie
nodded comprehendingly and, placing his hand on
Gerald's shoulder, together they stood and awaited
silence.

"Gentlemen, you may smoke," issued from their lips,
as through one mouthpiece, so soon as quiet was
attained; and the two proffered their dilapidated cases,
containing the excessively lean cigarettes they were in
the habit of smoking.

The glances of the two elderly men present had met
more than once during this unique entertainment—they
met again now, and each drew from his pocket
a well-stocked cigar case, and offered in return their
contents, the while, in perfect gravity, they courteously
accepted of their hosts' store.

Paul also came to the fore well provided with cigars,
at the sight of which the boys' eyes glistened.

"Smoke your own stuff, any one who would rather,"
Teddie said graciously.  "Thanks, yes," he added, "I'll
have a cigar."

So that, while the hosts and their brother Hugh
puffed contentedly at the fragrant and ever-coveted
weed, Mr. Desborough, Mr. Hamilton, and Paul Charteris
feigned to enjoy the worst cigarettes it had ever
been their fate to taste, praising them most unduly
in that they did not "bite," and were a pleasant,
light change for an after-dinner smoke.

"Quite so," Teddie agreed: "those who like a light
smoke will—er—will find them light.  For myself I
confess I prefer a cigar.  But then, you know," he
added ingenuously, "cigars are rather beyond my
means just now, and are consequently a treat."

"I am glad you are thinking of running down to
Hazelhurst for a visit," Gerald said conversationally,
addressing his uncle.  "Run down with me and Teddie
on Saturday."

Percival Desborough was suffering from remorse.
What an old fool he had been!  What an unconscionable
old fool!  All these years, these bitter, lonely
years of mental and bodily pain, years that were a
nightmare to look back upon, were of his own
contriving.  These three handsome young fellows, of whom
any relative might be proud—what an interest they
would have brought into his life, and to what better
purpose could he have put his money than to educate
them and start them fair, upon a better footing in the
world, than could be attained by their own and his
poor niece Helen's unaided efforts?  There were two
more, he remembered, conceivably as artless and
ingenuous as the four of Hubert Le Mesurier's children
with whom he was already acquainted.  What a fool,
what a fool!  He saw it now, and all for what?
Fancied slights, imaginary affronts, from this or that
member of the Westmacott family; probably the
outcome of a distorted mind, fed upon morbid fancies,
rendered irritable by bodily pain.  Real or fancied,
they no way included his niece Helen; but in shutting
himself away from the world, his injustice had
embraced all within its narrow, bigoted bonds; contention
and discord had rankled in his poor, warped mind,
and burned fiercely, with little or nothing to feed the
fire but his own imaginings.

As, in the long hours of the evening spent alone
after Hazel's visit, when the determination came upon
him to accept the invitation to go to Hazelhurst, so,
in the lonely night hours that followed the entertainment
provided by the Le Mesurier boys, did Percival
Desborough make up his mind to agree to Gerald's
proposal to run down with his young relatives the
following Saturday.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

"I don't see how I can go on being engaged to
you," Hazel announced.

It was a chilly day in October.  Autumnal tints
abounded in splendour.  Hazel herself suggested
autumn to Paul's mind.  Her soft, nut-brown hair was
surmounted by a little scarlet cap, fur-trimmed; and
she wore a scarlet coat, edged also with brown fur.
She seemed a combination of wych-hazel and mountain
ash.  They were driving in Paul's trap, on visiting
intent.  The persons about to be honoured were
Bobbie Boutcher and Bobbie Boutcher's mother.

"Why not?" Paul asked, in no wise visibly dismayed.

"The boys," Hazel declared tragically.  "You don't
know what I have to endure: you have no idea.
Even Uncle Percival teases now."

"What do they do?" Paul asked, much interested.

"Some of it is too—too awful to repeat," she averred
solemnly.  "But the names they call you—and me!"

"Give me an example," Paul said encouragingly.

"Yesterday, for instance," the girl pursued, "Teddie
said: 'Hazel, I have not seen old Peter for two whole
hours: I wonder if he has fled the country—you must
not be too surprised if he has.'  Sometimes they call
you Moses, and bring up the old joke: Why is it
known for certain that Moses wore a wig—only, of
course, they don't apply it to you."

"I would not mind all that," Paul returned, laughing.

"There is one person who calls you Pau—calls you
by your rightful Christian name," the girl amended
hastily, "and that is Uncle Percival; but then he spoils
it by putting the adjective 'elderly' before it."

"How do you mean?" Paul asked, somewhat startled.

"Oh, it is a silly old joke," she answered scornfully.
"Months ago," she continued, with an emphasis that
seemed to intimate years, "before I was seventeen, I
had an absurd notion that you were about middle-aged.
Of course, you are no longer young," she went
on, in frank self-justification; "but when I told
him—Uncle Percival—that you were over thirty, he asked if
you were bald, and has ever since asked after you as
the elderly—er——" she hesitated, slightly embarrassed.

"Paul?" suggested that young man, and he broke
into a hearty laugh.  "Child," he pursued, his laughter
subsiding into a merriment something mischievous,
"can't you even quote my Christian name, let alone call
me by it?"

"It comes to the same thing," Hazel returned
severely, "and I don't at all see why one must call you
by it, because one happens to be engaged to you."

"You'll have to come to it, Hazel.  What do you
call me at home?"

"By it, sometimes," she admitted, "but I don't often
mention you."

"Would you not think me very stiff, if I called you
Miss Le Mesurier?" he asked, seeking to plead with
her.

"Yes," she confessed, "but that is—that is different."  Then
she glanced up swiftly.  The appeal in his voice
was not lost upon her, and she wanted the evidence of
her eyes to aid in reassuring herself, that he was not
really hurt—that he did not seriously care.  The eyes
that met hers were brimming with fun, but beneath
shone love and tenderness—love and tenderness so
unmistakable, so all-convincing, that even Hazel could
read, though she hardly understood.  And just
discernible, though on the surface only, Hazel comforted
herself, was a faint, wistful shadow, a tiny cloud over the
depth of brilliant happiness, and all because she could
not bring herself to take the leap—such a little leap it
must appear to him—of calling him Paul to his face.

"I will try some day," she said piteously, "but you
must not mind if I can't.  You don't mind, do you?"
she asked anxiously.

"I should like to hear you say it, Hazel," he answered
gravely, tenderly.  "Is it so very hard, little one?"

For all answer the red cap nodded vigorously.

"Then I must be patient a while longer," he said,
suppressing a sigh.  When would the child know her
mind and love him?  It was inexpressibly sweet, this
shy reception of his loving attention and most inadequate
response to the warmth of his advances.  There was
an indescribable charm in the quick glance that returned
his steady regard, in the slight, cool pressure of the
little hand that could only be retained in his warm
clasp very much against its will.  She still preferred the
presence of her beloved brothers with herself and Paul,
to being alone with him.

Then, to his comfort, a vivid recollection of her face
recurred to his mind, when he had told her he was
going away for some months.  She had faced round
upon him quickly, looking very white and perplexed.

"But you can't," she had persisted again and again.
"You can't—you are engaged to me."

"I promised your mother that I would go," he
returned, watching her face closely.  "Only she can
release me, but I shall not ask her to do so—it would
not be honourable.  Shall you care, Hazel?  Shall you
miss me?"

But she would not tell him.

A few days later Helen, with her gentle smile, had
most unexpectedly cancelled the sentence of banishment.

"It is of no use your going, Paul," she had said.
"The child will fret and you—you will be miserable."

"And so you feel you cannot endure the boys' banter?"
Paul asked of his companion, somewhat ruefully.

"Oh well," she answered cheerfully, "I must, for the
present.  It is rather nice being engaged to you," she
continued naïvely, "and it is so convenient."

"Convenient?" poor Paul echoed blankly.

"You see," she explained, "I never could get about
anywhere: the boys being almost always away, and Miles
busy.  Besides, it was very lonely, with only a servant,
about twenty yards behind you.  But now, now I can
go great distances, in the trap if we wish, and we can
talk, and altogether it is very comfortable."

"Very," agreed Paul, at once amused and dismayed.

Something dry in the tone of his response made her
look up quickly.

"I hope you don't misunderstand me," she said
timidly.  "I should not like you to think I was only
making use of you.  I—I am very fond of you," she
added, her voice sinking, "and I enjoy being engaged,
very much."

Paul sighed.  It was a great admission, this, from
her; but oh, how unsatisfying!  It was but a whet
to his appetite, it made him hungrier than ever.

A silence fell between them.

"You have not yet told me what the boys call *you*,"
he said presently, trying to speak lightly.

"I really could not," she replied, and he was surprised
and distressed to see that she shrank from him,
albeit the movement was scarcely perceptible.

By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung
from her a promise that she would tell him—some
time—and then, with a sense of being hunted and
driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with
a desperate courage, feeling that she had better get
over the inevitable at once, seized the opportunity
when Paul's back was turned to her—whilst he
examined the horse's hoof for a suspected stone—to
whisper almost inaudibly, somewhere near the region
of his ear:

"Mrs. Charteris."

Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture
and question the whisperer, was surprised to find that,
quick as were his movements, he was already too late.
The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was
already presented to him as she stood sedately, some
yards away, knocking at the door of the Boutchers'
cottage.

Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified
beam upon her shining, pink, well-favoured countenance.

"You're welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint,
bobbing curtsey, "and the gentleman too, I am sure.
Won't he come in, miss?  It is a poor place, but he
is heartily welcome."

Hazel glanced behind her.  Paul was securing the
horse and trap to the stone post of the gateway.

"Thank you," she returned, "Mr. Charteris will like
to come in, I know.  We came to see little Bobbie,
and I wanted to give you a pinafore for him, that I
have made all myself, after Mrs. Doidge had cut
it out."

Bobbie himself, present, but invisible behind his
mother's back, was now dragged forward.

"For shame!" Mrs. Boutcher exclaimed, gently
shaking him.  "Don't you know the young lady what
saved you from the very jaws?  Say ''Ow do you do?'
this moment, and none of your nonsense.  He'll
understand some day what an obligation he is
a-labouring under to you, miss," Mrs. Boutcher hastened
to explain apologetically.  "At present he is no more
grateful nor what he would 'ave been if you'd just
let him be."

Hazel had been to see her *protégé* twice before
to-day, and found the constant references to what
Mrs. Boutcher termed her "'eroism" somewhat
embarrassing.  Nevertheless, the good woman's
conversation caused her much diversion.  One singularity of
hers was never to mention death by name, though the
meaning of the dread word was conveyed to her
audience frequently, in all manner of ingeniously
wrapped up and elegantly expressed phrases.

Paul came in, and Mrs. Boutcher, with ready
hospitality, dusted a second chair and asked him to
be seated.

"And if I might make you a cup of tea after your
drive, I'm sure I should be honoured," she assured
her guests.

She proceeded to bustle about, on hospitality intent,
whilst Hazel lost no time in coaxing Bobbie to come
to her and try on his new pinafore.  She had a way
of her own with children.  She did not appear to
notice the small individual himself, but seemed deeply
interested in the toy he held, and begged to look at
it more nearly.  The boy drew nearer, lost his shyness
little by little, and was soon exhibiting his treasure
and expounding its many virtues to an apparently
absorbed auditor.

"It is wonderful," Hazel commented.  "I have
something in this parcel besides the pinafore.  Come
and sit on my knee and see if you can untie the
string."

Presently the child was seated in Hazel's lap,
contentedly eating chocolates.  He was a pretty,
fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, and Hazel felt real affection
for the little fellow.  Beside her innate love of children,
she felt a proprietary interest in Bobbie, whose life she
had undoubtedly saved.  Mrs. Boutcher regarded the
pair with admiration and maternal pride, her head on
one side, a steaming kettle in her hand, poised for
discharging.

"Look at that, now!" she exclaimed, turning to
Paul for sympathy, "and him so shy as he'll run away
when the minister shows his face at the door, as if it
was the bogeyman's."  She approached Paul and
lowered her voice.  "You'd never guess, not to look
at him," she said confidentially, "as it's but three
months ago as he was rescued from out the Valley
of the Shadow.  Dear me," she continued, shaking
her head, "yes, it was a mercy—not vouchsafed to all
of us neither.  There was Mrs. Jones's now—she's
moved since, and it's no wonder—her little boy fell
into the water, just as it might be my Bobbie, and he
crossed the River," she whispered hoarsely.

Paul looked relieved.

"The child could swim?  That was fortunate."

"Law bless you, no, sir.  Swim?  He went down
like a stone in the middle of the stream."

"I understood you to say he crossed the river,"
Paul explained, nonplussed.

"The Jordan, sir," Mrs. Boutcher returned in a
hushed voice, somewhat shocked at the practical way
in which her guest interpreted her words—it was not
clear to her whether in ignorance or wanton
inadvertency—"the River as we must all cross some
day, to reach the Golden Shore."

Paul nodded comprehendingly.

"Poor little fellow," he murmured.

"You should hear our minister speak, sir," Mrs. Boutcher
went on.  '"E just draws the tears to your
eyes.  But you don't attend our chapel?"

"No," Paul admitted, "but Miss Le Mesurier often
takes me to church.  We have a clever preacher there."

Hazel, catching her name, looked up.  "Yes, Mrs. Boutcher,"
she said, "it is so nice.  I used to go very
seldom: the boys were often lazy or careless, and
sometimes really tired after their week's work.  Mother,
of course, could not go so far."

Mrs. Boutcher had fervently spread a fair white
cloth, and poured out two cups of tea.  She now
begged her guests to be seated, and whilst they
refreshed themselves, she again took up the conversation.

"Our minister," she said solemnly, slowly shaking
her head, "surpasses all I ever 'eard in the preaching
line.  Preach?  His father preached afore him, and
he has two sons what preach."

"A clever family," Paul commented.

Mrs. Boutcher's feelings did not allow her to find
words readily, but presently she wisely gave up
endeavouring to express herself, and went on in lighter
vein.

"It seems to come to them natural like, the moment
they ascend the pulpit.  It's just child's play to them,
father and sons alike, as it was child's play to the
minister's father afore them."

For one brief moment the eyes of Paul and Hazel
met, but they very creditably maintained their gravity.
Paul wondered what a clever preacher, and a good
earnest man to boot, would feel if he could hear
the strenuous endeavour, the never-ceasing watching,
praying, and battling of his life, pronounced child's play.

Hazel could not let it pass.  "Mrs. Boutcher," she
said gently, "we surely cannot call the great and
good work of clergymen child's play to them.  It is
his work, is not it? and the cleverer he is the more
he is bound to do his utmost, as an artist would, for
instance."

Mrs. Boutcher was not convinced.  "It may be
with some," she admitted, "but it's no work to our
minister, Miss.  You should hear him—it just flows
from him, with no effort on his part."

It began to dawn upon Hazel, that her hostess
had not used the term child's play in its usual sense,
a suspicion that was confirmed a little later, when
the good woman placed a large log upon the fire.

"That is a fine fellow," Paul remarked.  "Couldn't
I chop him in two for you, Mrs. Boutcher?"

But the hospitable Mrs. Boutcher demurred.  "I
could not think of troubling you, sir.  To be sure,
it's a fine log," she agreed, "a regular masterpiece."

Paul and Hazel did not stay long with the Boutchers:
they had promised themselves a half hour with the
Traverses that afternoon.  They set forth again, therefore,
so soon as tea was finished, reaching The Beeches
within the space of a few minutes.

Hazel breathed again when, on entering the drawing-room,
one glance assured her that Digby was absent.
There was the usual warm reception: Doris, Phyllis,
and Francis, who was present with his mother and
sisters, could not do enough for the young
couple—surrounding them on all sides, besetting them with
questions and attentions.  Finally Hazel was ensconced
upon the sofa—in the very middle—with cushions at
her back, a hassock under her feet, Phyllis and Doris
on either side of her, and Francis gracefully reclining
on the floor in front of her.  Mrs. Travers and Paul
were seated together a little apart from this sociable
group, but their interest seemed to be with it; the
eyes of both were directed upon it and upon the little
gracious central figure, and Paul could have embraced
his hostess there and then for the affectionate admiration
and motherly pride that beamed from her kind eyes.

"I have congratulated you before," she said, turning
to him, "many times, but I must do so again.  I think
you a very fortunate young man, and, if I may say
so, I also think you are worthy of your happiness,"
she added warmly.

"Ah no," disclaimed the devout lover, "who could
be that?  But I shall never cease to try to be so."

"Do you always do your hair up now?" asked
Phyllis of Hazel.

"Always," she replied, "except week-ends, and when
I am riding."

"Riding?" Phyllis and Doris exclaimed in unison,
breathless with interest.  "Oh, do you ride?  Who with?"

"With him," Hazel replied, nodding towards Paul,
without looking at him.  "We go for the most lovely
rides—twelve and fifteen miles."

"Oh, how lovely."  The breathless auditors were
again in unison.

"I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis.

The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention.
"Try not to appear too happy," she whispered earnestly.
"You know the trouble I have with her—how I try
to keep her a child."

Hazel nodded sympathetically.  "But I am afraid
I cannot help it," she whispered back.  "I am so happy,
you know.  What shall I do?" she added helplessly.

"Can't you hint that for many things you are sorry
that childhood is over?" suggested the demure maiden,
anxiously regarding the fresh, sweet, rosy face, the
happy brown eyes.

"But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank.

"Oh, Doris, don't keep Hazel all to yourself,"
Phyllis exclaimed plaintively.  "Hazel, have you got
a riding habit?"

"Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor.  Uncle
Percival gave it me—he is always wanting to give me
dresses, but mothie does not like him to."

"What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself,
and deeming her little sister's interest in this
subject—and possible envy—legitimate.

"Brown," Hazel made answer—"almost exactly the
colour of my horse."

"Your horse?"

"*He* did," Hazel said, anticipating the question,
again nodding in Paul's direction.

"How many hands?" inquired Francis from below.
He had never taken his eyes from Hazel's face.

"Sixteen," she answered promptly.

"What breed?" he inquired further.

"Now, Francis," Phyllis said, "don't begin a lot of
your tiresome farming questions.  Hazel, how brown
it must all look!  I suppose one can hardly notice
whether your hair is down or not.  But why do you
have it down for week-ends?"

"The boys," Hazel explained laconically.  "It entices
them to tease and call me names if I have it up.
Besides," she added resignedly, "they only take it down,
so what is the use?"

"So should I," observed Francis lazily.  "I wouldn't
have it up now, if I were Charteris."

"But you look so fearfully young," she complained.
"And you must remember that I—I am an engaged
wo—, that I am engaged, you know," she amended.

"Perhaps I shall be in four or five years' time,"
Phyllis said, with a little eager bounce of anticipated
pleasure.  "Oh, I wish the time would come."

"Phyllis!" poor Doris remonstrated, appalled.  "Be
young while you can, dear," she urged.

"Hazel does not look any the older for it," retorted
Phyllis.  "Oh, Hazel, do tell us some of his pet names
for you."

Hazel gasped and glanced hurriedly at Paul.  Paul,
who had not caught Phyllis's words, smiled at her
and wondered within himself whether he read her
glance aright: it seemed to appeal to him for help.

Francis came to the rescue.  "Look here, Phyllis," he
expostulated, "don't make any more of an *enfant
terrible* of yourself than you need.  I say," he
continued, tactfully seeking to change the conversation,
"how sick Digby will be when he hears that you
called."

This announcement effectually turned the current of
Hazel's thoughts.  She tried to appear properly
concerned, but relief and gratitude were all that Francis
could read in the look she turned upon him.

Paul somehow contrived to bring Mrs. Travers and
himself nearer the sofa, and the conversation became
general.

When the adieux were made, Phyllis's contrite look
was rewarded by an extra good-bye kiss and a forgiving
little squeeze of Hazel's hand.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

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   CHAPTER XIX

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But that was to befall which gave Hazel cause to
wish that Digby Travers had been present,
during Paul's and her visit to his father's house.  It
would have proved uncomfortable, embarrassing, a
sore trial of endurance for the moment; but once over,
once the inevitable first meeting after the event of the
engagement was ended, she could but have felt
immensely relieved, albeit her heart would have ached
with compassion for the poor young man, if, indeed,
she saw reason for such emotion.  She was always
buoyed with the comfort of that doubt.  Perhaps he
was no "lover."  He and Paul were as the poles
asunder; and Hazel could not doubt Paul.  Therefore,
either Digby was not in love with her, or there were
many sorts of lovers and many grades of being in love.
Paul seemed to be of a somewhat high grade, she thought.

Hazel was walking through the Hazelhurst woods
alone, pondering these matters in her heart.  She had
set out for an hour's brisk exercise at about three
o'clock in the afternoon, intent upon completing a
favourite round within the limit of that time, a round
that took her across the comparatively open space
where she was in the habit of feeding her pets, past
the great oak, down many winding paths to the
boundary fence, then, turning at right angles, a short
way terminating in a hazel copse, and thence home.

She walked rapidly: the early November air was
chill and crisp, making quick movement enjoyable
and exhilarating.  The woods were almost dismantled,
but the many trees that were evergreen did not allow
their thinness to be very marked, nor their nakedness
too pronounced.  Everywhere stood clumps of sturdy
green that endured through all changes, brave and
gravely cheerful, as if possessed of spirit too strong
to know airy flights of imagination or mournful
droopings of soul.  They were never more than gravely
cheerful, even in springtime's tremulous joy or summer's
triumphant glory: sober enough, indeed, to give one—at
such seasons—occasional vague feelings of irritation
at their seeming stolidness.  But ah! the gratitude
with which one gazes upon these reliable, impervious
old friends, when all else green in the dear woodlands
is shrivelled and dead; whilst the more sensitive trees,
that undergo so many phases of experience, are
fortifying themselves with the long sleep of winter.

Hazel was grateful to the evergreens now, as she
sped along, throwing them many and admiring glances,
vividly realising their sterling qualities.  She was just
emerging from the hazel copse, all aglow with exercise,
when a shadow fell across her path, and Digby Travers
spoke her name.

"At last," he said, "and alone."

Hazel's presence of mind did not desert her.

"Why, Digby!" she exclaimed, "how did you know
I was here?"

"It was rather early for calling when I arrived," he
answered, somewhat wearily, "so I strolled about in
the woods; and presently I caught sight of your
scarlet coat through the trees."

It had been but one o'clock when the poor young
man reached Hazelhurst, and for two hours and more
he had been roaming the woods.

"How dull you must have found it," she returned,
a trifle puzzled.  "You ought to have gone straight
to the house.  Being early does not matter with
informal old friends.  Come with me now and have tea."

She was concerned for him: he was pale and
haggard, but she dared not express her sympathy too
openly, and tried to appear brisk and matter-of-fact.

"Tired!" echoed Digby Travers, in a somewhat
hollow tone.  "If that were all!"

"You are not ill?" she asked quickly, in alarm.

"I wish I were," he answered, with a short, mirthless
laugh.  "I am sick to death of living; but no, I am
not ill in the ordinary sense of the word.  I am
fortunate to have met you," he continued.  "I have
longed and yearned to see you alone, if only for a
few minutes, to satisfy myself with my own eyes that
you were happy."

It was not quite clear to Hazel why he must see
her alone to ascertain that fact, but she did not care
to question him upon so delicate a point.

"*Are* you happy?" he asked, as she continued silent.

"Oh yes, very, thank you!" she assured him fervently.

But the assurance did not seem to gladden him.

"So I hoped and supposed," he rejoined, with
increased gloom.  "And that being so," he added,
after a pause, "what does one crushed spirit matter?"

"Do you mean yours?" asked Hazel blankly.

"I don't blame you," he went on, evading the
question.  "From the first you tried to show me that
my attentions were unwelcome, and I am a fool not
to have overcome my feelings long ago."

His words could leave no doubt in Hazel's mind.
He certainly was, or had been, in love.  She was at
a loss what to say to him, but she was, nevertheless,
profoundly pitiful, for occasional glimpses of
understanding were beginning to come to her; brief glimpses
of slow-dawning light, that grew grey again before
any vivid pitch was reached, were now and again
permitted her youthful mind and tender sensibilities,
rendering her capable of a depth of compassion toward
the poor young man, that would surely have brought
comfort to him, had she but expressed something of
what she felt.  And, all unknown to herself, it was
Paul's influence and Paul's teaching that were thus
awakening her woman's heart.

"I am dreadfully sorry if I have crushed your spirit,"
she said at length; "I never meant to.  I cannot quite
imagine how it has come about.  You have always
had me for a friend, and you have me still.  Now you
have another friend in him, haven't you?" she added,
seeking to cheer him.

Digby groaned.  Now indeed was he convinced that
his suit was hopeless.  Il she had spoken of
"Mr. Charteris," or even of "Paul," it might conceivably
mean that she had yet to learn her own mind; but
when a girl alludes to "him" simply, that girl was
lost for ever to Digby Travers.

"You like him, don't you?" Hazel pursued, slightly
startled at the reception that met her question.

"Oh yes, well enough, that is, very much," poor
Digby stammered, writhing under her innocent and
puzzled look.  He could not, in justice to Paul, feel
that the girl's heart had been stolen from him, for
he knew he had never for one moment possessed it.
Yet there was always the possibility that she might
ultimately have grown to love him, if Paul Charteris
had not come between them.  And now he was asked
to look upon "him" as a friend!

"Then try to be happy," Hazel said persuasively,
giving him her hand, "and don't feel crushed any
more.  You shall—shall stay with us, you know, often,
and we will all be such friends.  Still, of course, that
will not be for years yet," she added, blushing.

But this was too much for his fortitude.  He dropped
Hazel's hand, and, turning very pale, he walked a
few steps unsteadily, leaned against a tree as if for
support, and, sinking his head upon his arm, stood
motionless, save for the laboured heaving of his breast.
Hazel hovered about him in greatest distress.

"Digby, Digby," she cried, "I never thought you
would mind so much.  You shall see a good deal of me;
you shall indeed.  I will ask him—I will ask him if he
would mind your *living* with us, if that would comfort you,"
she added desperately.  "But you must wait.  We don't
want to—we don't want to do it yet for years."

"Hazel," Digby answered, speaking in short, panting
breaths, "you don't know what you are saying.  How
should you?  You are only a child.  But for God's
sake, don't tantalise a poor wretch like me with such
cruel words."

"Cruel?" poor Hazel exclaimed, with a sob.  "When
I am thinking all the time of what I can do and say
and promise to comfort you!  What can you mean,
Digby?  And a child indeed!  Me a child!"

Digby raised his head, and regarded her with
haggard eyes.  A very tender smile played over his
drawn features.  He seemed suddenly to have become
a grave and thoughtful man—ten years older than
the Digby she had known but a few months since.

"Yes," he said, quietly persistent, setting his back
to the tree, and folding his arms upon his breast, "a
child, a sweet, kind, impulsive, gentle little girl; and
as such you are distractingly adorable.  Well"—he
straightened himself and advanced a few paces—"God
make the man of your choice worthy of you, and
capable of loving you as I would have loved you."

"I did not exactly choose him," Hazel said quickly,
seeking to justify herself in Digby's eyes, "he—he chose
me.  Not but that I like being engaged to him very
much," she added hastily, fearful lest he should
misunderstand her.

But Digby understood her better than she
understood herself.  He read the new happiness in her
face aright—the shy and almost tender light in her
eyes when she spoke of Paul.  And he envied Paul,
as he had envied no man yet, the hour to come when
the realisation of her love for him should dawn and
break over her soul.  He smiled again, a brave smile,
and held out his hand.

"Good-bye," he said, making a resolute effort to
compose himself.  "You are just home: I will leave
you here."

"You won't come in?" she asked piteously, holding
him fast.

"No," he said; "I could not face the others to-day.
And don't let me feel I have been a brute and
distressed you.  I shall get over it some day—and——"

"Do you think you will soon?" Hazel asked eagerly,
raising tearful eyes to his face.

"Perhaps quite soon," he returned cheerfully, with
a slight gulp.  "And then, as you say, we shall all
be friends.  Good-bye."  He wrung her hand and
walked abruptly away.

Hazel was not to be deceived by this sudden
assumption of lightheartedness.  She stood for a few
moments looking after him.  He did not look back—never
even halted in his walk, but kept straight on,
turned a bend in the path and was gone.

She walked slowly through the flower garden, and,
blinded by tears, went stumbling up the steps, and
would have fallen over the threshold if she had not,
instead, fallen into Paul's arms, outstretched to receive
her.  And there she remained passive, like a wounded
bird, fluttered home.  Paul found the situation too
blissful to risk the result of speaking for the moment.
But Hazel had no intention of moving just yet.  The
breast of that tweed coat, now that she was shut in
before any alternative had been given her, was a very
convenient place, safe from his scrutiny; she was
conscious of a sense of comfort that began to steal
over her, and was vaguely surprised to find how very
pleasant it was, to have strong protecting arms about
her, just when she was feeling weak and helpless and sad.

He knew that she was crying, for he had seen her
face as she came up the steps.  He tried to obtain a
glimpse of it now, but she kept it hidden in his coat.
He gently removed the red cap, and softly kissed the
tumbled hair.  He must know what it was that troubled
her.  So, tightening his hold, he asked her gently what
the matter was.

"It is Digby," she answered, suppressing a rising sob.
"It is all dreadfully complicated.  He is very unhappy
at my being engaged to you.  It—it seems that he
wanted me himself."

Paul smiled broadly.  The next moment he was grave
enough.

"What right had he to say such things to you—now?
I must ask him to explain himself," he rejoined.

Hazel could divine from the energy with which he
spoke that Paul was angry.

"If you want to fight," she said, a little nervous
tremor running through her, "you will have to wait.  He
is too weak just now, he—he had to lean against a tree
to talk.  But oh, you would not be so unkind, would
you?  He is so unhappy," she added beseechingly.

"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure her.  "I don't
want to fight the poor fellow.  But he ought to have
been man enough not to have troubled you, Hazel."

"He was so unreasonable," she went on.  "I tried to
comfort him, and he told me not to tantalise him with
cruel words—*cruel* he called them."

Hazel raised her head a moment in order to see what
Paul thought of such perverseness.  Paul, who made a
very shrewd guess at the nature of Hazel's "comforting,"
hurriedly raised his hand and stroked his moustache.
Hazel's head hastily resumed its former position, after
one brief glance.

"But he was very manly," she pursued earnestly,
anxious to do poor Digby justice.  "I have never known
him so—so nice as he was just at the end.  He—he said
he should get over it soon," she added, more cheerfully,
"but—but he does not seem to want to live with us."

"What?" Paul cried, with such vehemence that
Hazel jumped.  "What?"

"He seemed so fond of me," Hazel explained
modestly.  "So I said, if he liked I would ask you if
you would mind his living with us—in after-years, you
know.  I am sure *I* did not want him," she added
plaintively.

"Hazel," Paul said, gently bantering, "I begin to
see that to the seclusion of your life alone is owed the
fact that our future home will not be overrun by
disappointed swains."

By this time Hazel was so far recovered as to be able
to emerge from her place of hiding.  As she sought to
release herself from the enfolding arms, Paul bent his head
and looked tenderly into her flushed, tear-stained face.

"Little one," he whispered, "may I, just for once, kiss
away those last tears from your eyes?"

"Oh no, thank you," she said hastily, somewhat
frightened at the suggestion.  She proceeded energetically
to dab her eyes, in order to remove all temptation,
and, making a more determined effort, succeeded in
freeing herself, Paul most reluctantly releasing her.

He opened the inner door of the hall.  As Hazel
entered, her eyes fell upon Hugh's back, or, rather, upon
the back of an easy-chair, above which the top of Hugh's
head was revealed.  A fire blazed and crackled on the
hall hearth, and the young man was enjoying its warmth,
very much at his ease.  He and Paul had been up to
town that morning, the former to see his uncle; and,
returning to Hazelhurst together, Hugh had soon settled
himself to marvel over the restlessness of a lover in the
absence of his beloved; whilst Paul, learning from Miles
that Hazel was out walking, had taken up his position
on the threshold, impatient for her coming, yet afraid to
venture forth, not knowing by which way she would come.

Hugh did not look round on their entrance: hearing
Paul's voice, he at once concluded that Hazel had
returned.  Hazel made her escape upstairs to bathe
her eyes.  After succeeding in removing all traces of
her late emotion, she entered Helen's room to propose
that her mother should come with her and hear the
result of Hugh's visit to their uncle.  Helen readily
consented.  They were all much interested concerning
Hugh's future prospects.  As for Paul Charteris, he
was relieved as well as interested; for the farce of
Hugh as secretary was apparently about to terminate
most agreeably—a circumstance almost as pleasing
to his employer as to Hugh himself.  He was to study
art for a time, and if he fulfilled the hopes his uncle
had been led to entertain of him, he was to be provided
with a studio of his own, and started in life.

"Don't you trouble about finishing up work at my
place, old fellow," Paul said to him.  "You will like
some time off, before beginning the new work."

Hugh readily acquiesced.  "All right.  I do feel
the need of a bit of a holiday," he admitted.

"So do I, by Jove," Teddie observed.  He and
Gerald, noiselessly opening the inner door, had
overheard Hugh's remark.  "Hullo, Mrs. Char—!  Hullo,
Charteris, I did not see you."

The two proceeded to place hats, coats, and
portmanteaux aside, whilst the group about the hearth
pushed their chairs farther back, at once enlarging the
circle and inviting the new-comers within its hospitable
radius.

"If I had not completely forgotten it was Saturday!"
Hugh commented, regarding his brothers something
patronisingly, as one to whom all days in the week
were alike, so far as momentous settings forth and
comings in were concerned.  For was not Hugh a
gentleman at large?

Gerald and Teddie did not take possession of the
two vacant chairs that Hazel—who had not forgotten
to expect them—had been careful to provide,
preferring to seat themselves upon the rug and support
their backs against mother and sister, in such pose as
should render the stroking of the two curly heads a
natural and easy occupation.

When Hugh's affair had been thoroughly discussed,
Helen produced two letters from her absent sons, Guy
and Cecil, each announcing his intention of being
home for Christmas.  Further debate followed this
gratifying news; and many and ingenious were the
propositions tendered by the Le Mesurier boys for
the entertainment of their brothers; till interruption
on the part of Miles roused them all to a sense of
the present, and to the necessity of dispersing, in
obedience to the butler's peremptory injunctions, as
voiced by the gong.





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.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX

.. vspace:: 2

Teddie Le Mesurier sat in the inner office
with his superior.  Mr. Hamilton had a knack of
contriving to get the boy to himself, in a manner which
eluded the particular notice of the other young men
in his employment, and which seemed always perfectly
natural and without artifice.  Neither did Mr. Hamilton
keep rigorously silent throughout the long working-hours;
for, greatly as he believed in discipline, Teddie's
ingenuous talk had an odd fascination for this elderly
man, bereft of an only son; and there were times
when, if not directly encouraged to lay aside his pen,
Teddie at least found a most attentive and appreciative
auditor, when he was pleased to regale his friend with
stories and anecdotes pertaining to his and his brothers'
younger years.

"Get on with your work, my boy," Mr. Hamilton
would say, with a brusqueness that was supposed to
cover any ill-concealed delight that might have been
apparent to Teddie; whilst many a burst of hearty
laughter was of a sudden checked, in the hope that
such mirthful sounds had not yet reached the ears of
those in the outer office: thus seeking to save his own
dignity, and his young friend from any possible
ill-feeling among his colleagues.

To-day Teddie had not been invited to sit in the
private office; but, preferring Mr. Hamilton's society
to that of his fellow-clerks, and calling to mind that
the leather-padded chair was more desirable than his
own high stool, and that the writing-table was pleasanter
to write upon than his own desk, he decided to make
use of these advantages.

Gathering together his working materials, he walked
boldly in, after a slight but withal a defiant knock,
seated himself, and was immediately profoundly wrapped
in his task.  Mr. Hamilton looked up, somewhat
surprised, coughed to gain the young man's attention, and
ejaculated: "Well, upon my word!"  But Teddie,
beyond one abstracted look and mechanical nod, sat
on imperturbable, his elbows on the table, his fingers
run through his hair, so deeply immersed—only, indeed,
altering his attitude for the purpose of distractedly
turning over papers—that Mr. Hamilton, passing his
hand over his moustache, and giving vent to a
suppressed chuckle, at length desisted from his attempts
to attract Teddie's eye or ear, glad enough not to
press for an explanation of such unaccustomed
behaviour; for he liked the boy's company above any
other, and was secretly flattered that Teddie had
evinced a similar feeling.  But he decided that the
young rogue, as he mentally termed him, should not
go unpunished.

It was early—about ten; work for the day was but
just begun.  For two long hours not a word was
exchanged.  Soon Teddie's most exaggerated ardour
began to wane.  He plunged his fingers into his hair
less feverishly, and turned over papers in a less
distraught manner.  Slowly but surely he assumed his
normal bearing: calm was succeeded by lassitude.
Teddie yawned, stretched, fidgeted, and drummed softly
with his fingers upon the table.  Never had he known
his superior so unsociable.

Finally he leaned back in his chair and deliberately
regarded Mr. Hamilton, upon whom he had hitherto
bestowed only fleeting and furtive glances.  All to no
purpose: his companion remained deeply engrossed
with the work in hand.  Never had Teddie known him
so utterly impervious to his surroundings.  In the outer
office he knew well enough that occasional murmured
remarks were made now and again, or a joke was
cracked: all helping to pass the tedium of the long
morning with less insupportable dryness than seemed
to be his fate here.  Three hours had now elapsed in
unbroken silence.  With an impatient sigh he languidly
resumed his work.  But that sigh was too much for
the soft-hearted side of Mr. Hamilton's nature.  He
looked up.  Teddie was viciously making a full-stop
with the point of a long-suffering pen.  In truth, so
hard had he dug into the paper that the withdrawal
of the pen caused a splutter of ink, destroying the
fair surface of the foolscap.  With a low-breathed
imprecation he, too, looked up, somewhat guiltily, and
met his companion's eyes.

"You don't seem quite so busy just now," Mr. Hamilton
observed drily.

"No," Teddy returned shortly.  "Hang it all," he
added, in his old, peppery way, "a fellow cannot keep
up the pace that I have been going these three hours
and more."

He certainly had done more in those three hours
than he often achieved in a day, the elder man noted
with amusement.

"Perhaps you have leisure to answer a question or
two?" he asked cheerfully.  "I am rather puzzled.
I am not aware that I had expressed a wish—that
I had, in short, asked any one to come in this morning.
You were so very busy, I did not care to disturb you
by inquiring why you had come."

Teddy was somewhat abashed, but he still looked
his interlocutor squarely in the eyes.

"I thought perhaps it was a bit dull in here for
you alone," he said coolly.  "I don't care where I
sit; but this chair and table are more comfortable than
that rotten stool and desk."

"So you put up with my company for the sake of the
more agreeable furniture?" Mr. Hamilton rejoined,
eyeing him keenly.

"As to that, your company is good enough," Teddie
admitted.  "I thought, you know," he added, dropping
his pen on the floor and diving after it, "we might
get on rather well, if this table were looked upon as
mine."

Mr. Hamilton was conquered.  "Put your work
away, and let us have a chat before going out to lunch,"
he said.  "And yes, my boy," he added genially,
"suppose we consider that your table, and let us for
the future share this room together.  What do you say?"

"Done," Teddie resumed briefly.  But his
companion was content with the reply.  The boy had
flushed up and was looking immensely gratified.

At this juncture there came a knock on the door,
and a clerk entered to say, that Mr. Desborough's
servant desired to speak with Mr. Le Mesurier.  In
some wonder Teddie followed him into the outer office,
and, taking the man apart, asked his business.

"My master is very ill, sir," Thomas returned, "and
is asking to speak with you, sir."

"What is the matter with him?" Teddie asked, blankly.

"The doctors don't exactly say, sir, but the heart's
action is giving out, as I understand it.  Can you come
at once, sir?  It is a matter of a few hours, at best."

Teddie nodded and re-entered the inner office, to
acquaint Mr. Hamilton with the sad intelligence.

"You had better take a cab and be off instantly,"
was his kindly advice.

And Teddy, accompanied by the man, followed his
counsel, only stopping at a telegraph office on the
way, to ask Helen to come to Lancaster Gate.

A doctor turned from the bedside as Teddie entered
his uncle's room.  He motioned the young man aside,
and laid great stress upon not exciting the patient,
and expressed the opinion that relatives should be
informed of the approaching end.

Teddie was relieved to see his uncle look much
as usual.  In his utter inexperience he had supposed
the fatal illness must inevitably have worked terrible
havoc in his appearance.  Beyond accentuation of
the lines, with which age and suffering had furrowed
his face, the boy could perceive but little change.

At once reassured, he grasped the feeble hand that
was held out to him, and began to pour forth boyish
words of cheer and comfort, bringing a smile to his
uncle's lips.

"This is only a bad attack.  You'll be over it in
no time," he assured him.  "Doctors are mostly old
women and love croaking.  Shall I shake up your
pillow?" he asked, at a loss what to say or do next,
"and—and give you a dose of medicine?"

"Teddie," Mr. Desborough said—and at the sound
of his voice Teddie's hope sank again—"Teddie, we
must look this thing squarely in the face.  I am
dying, my boy, and I sent for you.  I had one or
two things to speak of.  I leave all I have,
unconditionally, to my niece Helen, which circumstance you
will all learn soon enough now.  But what I wanted
to say is this.  That little sister of yours, my little
Hazel"—his face softened strangely as he spoke her
name—"who has always been wanting to 'earn
money,' to quote her own words"—again he smiled—"for
the most unselfish purposes, ought to be told
that she, and she alone, has redeemed the fortunes of
her house.  But for her I should never have become
reconciled to my niece Helen, or learned to love her
and her children."

"It was my intention," he continued, after pausing
to rest, "to leave all to Hazel; but she will be well
provided for; and I know her well enough to feel
convinced that, were she here, she would tell me how
infinitely she would prefer that this money should
restore the old home and the old name to their
former status.  The child can then go to her new
home, and enter upon her new life with a light heart.
Will you tell her this from me?"

Something gripped Teddie's throat.  "All right,"
he said huskily, "I'll tell her."

"As for you, my boy, you are not going to refuse,
for your own part, to be benefited by your old uncle's
money, in that hot-spirited way of yours?"
Mr. Desborough asked, half anxious, half amused.

Teddie cleared his throat.  "No, no," he assured
the dying man, "we will take it and use it.  But, I
say, uncle, hang the money," he burst out.  "Don't
talk like this.  You have got years to live yet.  You
get well and let us all go on in the good old way.
Why, mother and Hazel were saying how they hoped
you would spend Christmas with us, and we—they—think
an awful lot of you.  Don't go and die yet."

A gleam of pure and genuine happiness passed
over the face on the pillow.  He was not to die,
then, quite unmourned; and as for this warm-hearted
boy and his little pet, Hazel, and his niece Helen,
for the matter of that, he could believe that they
would rather keep the crusty old relative among them
than be possessed of his money, incredible as it seemed.

"I should like to see Helen," he said suddenly, and
he looked wistfully at his young nephew.  "Do you
think she could come?"

"I have already telegraphed to her," Teddie
replied; "she could be here by about five o'clock,
I think."

At about that time Helen arrived, eager to be of
use, if only to help to comfort the last hours of the
poor life that was slipping away.  She sat by his
bed and talked softly to him in her gentle,
affectionate way, careful not to agitate or excite him,
keeping all painful subjects from his thoughts.  Once,
despite her endeavours, he began to blame himself,
and Helen was infinitely touched at the yearning
and distress his eyes expressed, at the bitterness his
words evinced, for the long years of estrangement
from her and her children.

"Do not blame yourself too much," she said
tenderly.  "I, too, was wrong.  I ought to have
pushed my way into your heart and forced you to
love me, instead of allowing you to shut me out.
My only excuse, dear uncle, lies in the fact that I
was poor and you were rich, and I shrank from the
possible construction that might have been put upon
my behaviour by others, had I seemed to force my
friendship upon you.  Now I see that such shrinking
was morbid and selfish.  So, dear uncle, don't be
troubled any more.  We understand each other now,
and freely do we forgive one another.  Is it not so?"

He made no answer, but feebly returned the
pressure of her hand.

"All is well with you," she murmured presently,
as she noted the weary droop of his eyelids.  "All
is well and happy.  We all love you.  Think only of
that—we all love you, we all love you."

She murmured the words again and again.  They
seemed to soothe the dying man, as a lullaby might
soothe a little child, who had awakened, distressed,
from a bad dream.  His eyes closed, a tranquil
expression spread over his worn features, and he
sank into sleep, still grasping his niece's hand.

From this childlike slumber he passed gradually,
peacefully, into that sleep, the beatific happiness of
whose dreams was already stamped upon the face,
smoothing away all troubled lines, leaving a slight,
strange smile upon the lips.

Thus the troublous life, that had somehow missed
happiness, passed away to the keeping of Him who
understands all things, so fully, so widely, so
comprehensively, that in His eyes there remains but little
to forgive: for such is the Divine Compassion.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

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   CHAPTER XXI

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Hazel was standing before the mirror in her
room, thoughtfully fastening her riding habit.
"It is *beginning* to get shabby," she reflected; "but
as he says I am never to wear anything but brown
for riding, there is no purpose in having another made
for the sake of change: dark green, for instance.  I
wonder whether he would find a name for me in dark
green.  Let me see: in brown I am Wych-hazel;
in my scarlet coat I am Witch; and in my white
dresses I am just Hazel—in rather a special voice, of
course," she reminded herself, blushing.  "But dark
green——"

"What name would you give me if I had a dark
green dress?" she asked, a while later, as she and
Paul Charteris brought their horses from a brisk canter
to a walk.

"Moss Rose, of course," he answered, without
hesitation.  "I am so glad that Uncle Percival insisted
that no one should wear mourning for him.  I should
not like to see you in black, child.  It would look
tragic, and I don't know what I could call you."

"Won't Teddie find it funny going back to college,
after being a clerk so long?" Hazel said, laughing.

Paul agreed.  "When are you going to call me
Paul?" he asked of a sudden.  "I am longing to
hear you."

Hazel looked dubious.  "Some people never do," she
answered, desirous of showing him she was not peculiar.
"We once knew a man named John Dalrymple, and
his wife called him Mr. Dalrymple, and when she was
very friendly, just Dalrymple, but never John."

"Then suppose you begin by calling me Charteris,"
he suggested.

"Perhaps I don't feel friendly enough," she returned
mischievously.  "Shall I go ahead here, or will you?"

They had entered upon a bit of woodland, through
which a bridle track led to the open country beyond.
It was a somewhat dangerous path to traverse on
horseback, save in the full light of day: for here and
there a far-stretching tree would reach out a powerful
limb, as though to stay the rider's further progress;
and, as if angered at the prudence of the low-ducking
horseman, would make a desperate endeavour to clutch
at his hat.  It successful in this attempt, the trophy
would be flung to the ground in malicious glee, causing
a considerable amount of trouble to the hapless owner;
there being nothing for it but to rein up, dismount,
and retrace the distance already passed over to recover
the ill-used headgear.

Under foot the way was smooth enough, well beaten,
and, to-day, frost-bound; so that no distraction offered
itself to divert the mind from close attention to these
dangers overhead.

It was a lovely scene.  Dew and frost had combined
to set a sparkling filigree upon patches of bracken,
whilst in the less-sheltered spots whole groups of trees
stood as if carved in white glistening coral, the knots
and articulations of each massive trunk, shapely branch,
and twig clearly defined against a sky of such steely
blue, that the scarlet of the holly berries was rendered
doubly vivid in compliment, and the shining dark
blue-green of the holly leaves looked almost cruel in the
strength and sharpness of their stiff outline—the hard,
even curves between the tiny spikes seeming only to
serve to strengthen the merciless little weapons, as
though Nature, in her vein of architect, was aware of
the support lying within the arch-like fashion of shape,
and revelled in the knowledge.  Upon the ground dead
leaf-drifts in masses shimmered white and hard-caked
together; hollow hazel-nuts and dry alder cones lay
stiff and stark; touchwood abounded—all wreckage of
the passing year, most beautiful in death, keeping life
in whatsoever it covered, giving warmth and protection
to delicate root and bulb, to grey lichen and green
mosses; whilst the dead brake fern helped to nurse
next year's glory of bracken—all jealously guarding
the priceless treasures locked within the earth, showing
that death is not vain.

Rest in life was upon all things; beautiful in itself
and in the promise it gave forth.  For oh, the
transcendent loveliness of a few months later, when Nature
should arise from her long, long beauty-sleep,
warm-flushed, star-eyed, instinct with tender vigour, to bathe
in dew and sun baths!

Hazel gazed upon the undergrowth with reflecting
knowledge.  It was one of her delights to separate
with the eye, briar and bramble, whortleberry and
woodrush, from out the delicious tangle it exhibited,
to paint and fashion it all in spring colours and shapes
of scarlet bells and purple berries.

Now and again Paul looked round at the girl, smiling
to himself at her abstracted face and mien.  Twice he
called to her to beware of a treacherous branch, and
Hazel obediently ducked.  He was about to do so on
a third occasion, when that befell which, terrible as it
appeared to Hazel, left Paul thankful in that the
seeming mischance wrought him nothing but good, and bid
him enter into his man's heritage: a woman's love—to
taste of its fulness.  For, in an unguarded moment,
when stress of emotion had unlocked the close-fastened
child-heart, there was no time to secure it again before
Paul had entered and taken full possession.

At the moment of turning in the saddle to call Hazel's
attention to the third and last limb along the track,
that threatened danger, his horse had sighted a
wheel-barrow—left by some woodsman beside the pathway—before
it stood revealed to his master; and, swerving,
with a sudden leap plunged forward, dashing his rider
against the low-hanging bough that, with nice
calculation, he had given himself ample time to avoid,
had not the unforeseen so altered the measured pace
that the riders had adopted.

Struck full in the chest, Paul's progress was effectually
stayed, the startled animal swept from under him, and
the next moment he was stretched his length upon the
ground.

With a low cry of dismay, so soon as she could check
her horse's wild curvetting, before, indeed, bringing him
to a stand, Hazel slipped from her saddle and, speeding
to the spot, knelt beside Paul's inanimate form.  In an
agony of tender solicitude she raised his head, that her
arm might pillow it.  The ground was slightly stained
with blood from a small scalp wound and, in most
unwonted sort—for the girl was ever prone to look
at all ills in their best and most hopeful aspect—Hazel
was under the appalling conviction that her lover was
dead.

Lowering his head again, she opened his coat and
waistcoat and placed a little, trembling hand upon his
heart, but could detect no motion.  She bent her cheek
near his mouth, but the cold air permitted no warm
breath to penetrate to her senses.  In wild grief the
poor girl called frantically upon his name.

"Paul, Paul," she cried; "Oh, Paul, darling old
fellow!  I am saying it now, but you can't hear me!
I am kissing you, Paul, but you can't feel it!  You are
dead—dead—and can never know that at last your
Wych-hazel was able to tell you how she loved you!"

And, with a piteous little moan, the stricken child
sank down beside him, and with her head upon his
breast, one arm flung appealingly about his neck, she
mercifully lost consciousness.

Paul, who was but momentarily stunned, heard her
without at once being able to rouse himself from the
stupor into which the fall had thrown him.  In dreamy
delight he drank in the words that fell upon his ears,
even while he could not comprehend their full import.
He felt two tremulous kisses upon his cheek; but it
was not till her voice fell silent and he felt her weight
against him, that he realised she had fainted.

Then necessity came to his aid.  With a desperate
effort he shook himself free from the torpor of mind
and body, and succeeded in collecting his wandering
senses.  Placing his arm about the unconscious girl,
he raised himself to a sitting posture, and proceeded to
chafe the hand that his movement had caused to slip
from his neck to his breast, whilst in his turn he called
her name, beseeching her to open her eyes.  And
presently Hazel, with a little fluttering sigh, obeyed his
agonised appeal, and, opening her eyes, looked up into
his face, while Paul talked softly and watched
consciousness returning to their depths.

Lying there, placid and content as a little child, the
memory of what had happened of a sudden flooded
her mind.  Paul was smiling quietly upon her, and,
strangest of all, was looking quite his usual self!  The
fearful dread her heart had held, rendered her speechless
for a moment, wrapped in silent thanksgiving.

Then she drew away from him and rose to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.  "Do you think you
can move up and down, however slowly, while I look
for your horse?  You must not freeze, you know."

Paul had risen also, and, pacing backward and
forward, declared himself quite unhurt and well able
to search for his truant steed.

Hazel's horse was in the near neighbourhood, restlessly
moving from place to place; nor was the other
far to seek.  The animal had been but momentarily
startled: his panic having quickly subsided, he could
now be heard whinnying at a short distance from the
scene of the misadventure.  In a few minutes Paul had
secured both bridles, and at Hazel's suggestion they
retraced on foot the woodland pathway, after she had
trundled the cause of the mischief—the woodsman's
wheelbarrow—deeper into the wood, lest some other
hapless rider should meet with like calamity.

As she grew more and more assured that Paul was
really none the worse, a very agony of shyness seized
upon Hazel.  What had she confessed in those moments,
when unspeakable desolation had fallen upon her soul?
And how much had Paul heard and understood?  She
took occasion to glance furtively at him, as they two
rode slowly homeward, side by side.  It was generally
to find him regarding herself with a new happiness in
every line of his countenance and added light to his
eyes, such as greatly disquieted her.

Arrived at Hazelhurst, Hazel acquainted her mother
with the circumstances of the accident.  After dressing
the slight hurt with the aid of her daughter, Helen
insisted upon rest and refreshment before Paul should
be allowed to depart for home, despite the shortness of
the distance between the two houses.

So that dark was falling when he bade his kind
hostess farewell, and Hazel accompanied him to the
door.

Emboldened by the dimness of the fading light, she
crept close up to him, bending her head that he should
not study her face.

"You—you knew what I thought?" she asked,
trembling a little.

"Yes, poor child," he answered tenderly, stroking the
soft hair.

She guessed by his half-soothing, half-bantering tone,
that he divined her thoughts.  Creeping yet closer, she
placed her two hands upon his breast.  His own closed
over them.

"You—you heard?" she whispered, her eyes downcast.

Then he had pity upon her.

"Hazel," he said earnestly, "I heard you say you
loved me, and I heard you call my name.  But it was
not till you fainted that I was able to rouse myself."

He might have added he could yet feel the two
timid kisses that had fallen upon his cheek, but he
was merciful.

A silence fell between them.  Hazel was wrestling
with her shyness.  She must know.

In desperation she raised her head and looked
quickly into his face.  Her lips parted, but it was a
quick blush that asked the question.

"And that too, little love," he murmured.

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   FINIS

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