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.
*CHAPTER IV*
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.
*CHAPTER V*
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.