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!"
*CHAPTER X*
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.