Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: GERALD CARVED THE MUTTON, TEDDIE SERVED THE VEGETABLES
(_p._ 248)]
*HAZELHURST*
BY
ENID LEIGH HUNT
(MRS. DEREK EDWARD THORNTON)
AUTHOR OF
"THE ADVENT OF ARTHUR"
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON AND CO., LTD.
1908
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON
*HAZELHURST*
*PROLOGUE*
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.
*CHAPTER I*
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.
*CHAPTER II*
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?"