have done so under any consideration. "Oh no, he left me in a
first-class ladies' waiting-room--he had to go back to his office, you
know--and while I was sitting there I remembered how near you were, and
how often I had thought that some day, unknown to any one, I would come
to see you and try to make friends. Don't you think we might be
friends, you and I?" she added ingenuously.
"What do you want money for?" her uncle inquired, evasively.
"Just pocket-money," Hazel said. "I am always running out of it. You
would not believe how inconvenient it is. I am always seeing new ways
of earning some. I see one to-day--only mother would not let me."
"What do you think of doing?" her uncle asked. He was becoming
interested, and almost amiable--he, who had been interested in nothing
and in no one but self for years. He admired this bright, gentle girl
in spite of himself; he was beginning to dread the moment when she would
get up and say she must go.
"You will laugh," Hazel returned, "but my latest idea is to be a
companion--to you--for so much a week, you know: that would mean that
you could dismiss me, or that I could leave you, at a week's notice. If
I went without _any_ notice, quite suddenly, I should have to forgo a
week's salary. But it would never do," she continued reflectively,
"mother would never let me. She says she must always have me with her.
But it is a pity. There is no doubt you need a companion, and I
certainly want money."
"I much prefer living by myself," her uncle replied brusquely. "I don't
want any companion."
"I think you do," Hazel returned, standing to her opinion bravely. "To
begin with, look at this room!"
"What of it?" her uncle asked harshly. "It is a very good room, well
furnished, capacious, comfortable."
But Hazel observed that he was roused, and did not seem displeased to
have some matter to discuss.
"It is dark," she persisted, "and stuffy. No one could spend many hours
a day in it, as I dare say you do, without their health and spirits
being affected. Human beings are like plants: they want light and air,"
she added oracularly. "I know I could not live here and feel well and
happy and--and good tempered"--with delicate hesitancy.
"What should you propose to do?" Mr. Desborough asked.
"To throw open the windows and drag back some of the curtains. May I?
You will find it such an improvement."
"Mrs. Hodges would be horrified," her uncle returned, "and rightly. The
sun would fade all pattern from the valuable carpet."
"But you are more valuable than the carpet," Hazel pleaded, "and you
must not forget that the dark fades _you_."
At this juncture the footman entered the room to announce that luncheon
was served, in the exact tone of voice and with the selfsame manner in
which he had announced Hazel. Then, relaxing the rigid muscles of his
body, the while his face took an even added look of stoic resolve, he
advanced to his master's side and deferentially offered his arm.
Percival Desborough regarded the arm with an expression of dislike,
almost of disgust, depicted upon his hard-featured countenance. There
was nothing personal in this show of feeling, as Thomas had probably
long ago discovered.
"Must you go through the pain of walking?" asked Hazel pitifully, quick
to note and interpret. "Won't you have a tray brought here?"
"I prefer to eat in the dining-room," her uncle answered shortly, as he
got to his feet with a groan and a half audible word of an exclamatory
nature.
But, with all his bad temper, and his sensibilities rendered
ultra-critical, as they were, through pain and discontent, the poor
gentleman could find no real fault with the way in which Thomas, like
some machine of wonderful mechanism, manoeuvred the movements of both
himself and his master, with an accuracy of eye-measurement controlling
hand and limb, truly amazing, acquired only by years of practice.
During those years, however, devoted by the servant to learning how to
satisfy his master, Mr. Desborough had acquired the habit of expressing
his opinions somewhat freely concerning the stupidity of Thomas in
particular and of his kind in general. So that even now, albeit
Thomas's manipulation was perfect, and his master, aware of the fact,
would not under any consideration trust the removal of himself from room
to room to any other than this well-tested servant, he could not refrain
from relieving himself of some of the well-worn and hackneyed phrases,
to the use of which he had accustomed himself during the years of
Thomas's noviciate. But these recriminations had always to be voiced
well in advance of the moment to which they were supposed to allude;
else their unreasonableness struck disagreeably upon even Mr. Desborough
himself.
"Should you like my shoulder, or do you prefer your stick?" Hazel asked,
springing to her feet.
"Thank you," her uncle returned drily, "I am more accustomed to the
stick--I had better keep to it." But there was a gleam of amusement in
his eye, as he surveyed the shoulder in question, squared for action.
"You will lunch with me?"
"Thank you," the girl answered. "I had not thought of it, but there is
certainly plenty of time."
"Where did you intend to lunch?" her uncle answered when, the laborious
journey accomplished, they were seated at the table.
"Where?" Hazel repeated. "Oh, in the waiting room. Teddie bought me
twelve halfpenny buns, thinking that I was going to take an earlier
train, and that I should not be very late for lunch. I should be glad
if I might leave them here," she went on, "It is such a bagful and,
however hungry I am, I can never eat more than two halfpenny buns. Can
you?"
"I don't know," returned her uncle with a grim smile. "I have
forgotten. Eh, Thomas?"
Thomas was so startled at this most unusually amicable address, that he
nearly dropped the dish that he was in the act of handing.
"Teddie knows this--this peculiarity of mine," Hazel continued; "but he
is always so generous, and always likes to do things on a large scale.
He said he knew I should not eat them, but nevertheless he liked to
think I had them."
"I suppose you engaged an outside porter?" her uncle inquired.
The amazed Thomas had not seen him in so jocular a vein for years.
Hazel laughed. "You would like Teddie. Everyone does, without being
able to help themselves."
"Humph," her uncle ejaculated.
"I could give you another instance of his large-heartedness," the girl
went on. "It is a good story, and not long." She proceeded to relate
the incident of the quarrel with Carrots, its cause, the black eye, the
beefsteak, and of her brother's subsequent dismissal. Her uncle
endeavoured to hide an interest that was manifest.
"What is the boy doing now?" he asked gruffly.
"He is back there," she answered. "Mr. Hamilton soon afterwards
discharged Carrots and came to see us and took Teddie back."
"What does he get?" her uncle inquired.
"Fifty pounds a year," Hazel replied cheerily, with some pride. "He has
had a rise lately--it used to be forty."
Her uncle muttered something in response, then coughed to cover his
words.
"I beg your pardon?" Hazel apologised.
Her uncle evaded the note of interrogation. "What do the others earn?"
he asked.
"I don't know exactly what Cecil's salary is," she returned. "He sends
every penny home that he can afford; he is in India, you know, and it is
a good lot--a couple of hundred, I should imagine. Guy and Gerald have
each a hundred a year; Gerald gives up fifty of his, but Guy, who is
obliged to dress better, has to keep seventy-five for himself." She
paused.
"There is another one, isn't there?" Mr. Desborough asked.
"Yes, Hugh," the devoted sister continued. "Till lately he had forty,
like Teddie, but now he is getting a hundred too."
"And what does he contribute?"
"I think seventy or eighty. You see, he lives at home."
"How is that?" Mr. Desborough inquired sharply.
"He is a private secretary to Paul Charteris. You have heard of him, I
suppose? His ground adjoins ours."
"Paul?" repeated her uncle. "Paul? That was not the name, surely?"
"You are thinking of the father, Philip Charteris," explained Hazel.
"He died, years ago; then Vivian died, his eldest son, and now it is
Paul."
"So it is Paul now. What is he like?" And Percival Desborough eyed the
girl keenly.
"You would like him," she returned with enthusiasm. "You feel you can
confide in him. To me he is almost like one of my brothers, only, of
course, he is much older. But he appears quite young--somehow you
forget his age."
"What is his age?"
"Oh, he must be thirty," Hazel answered, as one who speaks, with both
pity and reverence, of a life well-nigh spent.
Her uncle chuckled amusedly. "Is he bald?" he asked.
"He has got most beautiful thick hair," Hazel returned indignantly.
There was a pause.
"By the way," her uncle remarked, "where did you get your dark looks?"
"It is a sort of freak," Hazel rejoined, half apologetically. "It
occurs in the family every now and again. Years and years ago there was
a Hazel Le Mesurier like me, only very much prettier; there is a
portrait of her in the gallery at home, dated 1661, taken of her when
she was five years old."
"It is a relief to hear she was prettier," Mr. Desborough said drily.
"But about Hugh: what does young Charteris want with a private
secretary?"
Hazel opened her eyes. "Oh," she explained, "he has heaps of things to
see to and look after. He was saying only the other day that he thinks,
if Hugh does not mind, he will get an older man, and let Hugh be
assistant secretary."
Mr. Desborough stared at her aghast. "That would be nothing more nor
less than an act of charity bestowed upon the lad," he said at length.
"Nothing will make me believe that Charteris requires two secretaries.
He wants an excuse to help the family, so he keeps on a worthless young
man."
"How can you say such a thing!" Hazel cried hotly. "Mr. Charteris begged
to have him, and told mother it would be a great convenience, because,
Hazelhurst being so near, he need not live at Earnscleugh, as most
secretaries would have to do."
"A good argument, truly," her uncle remarked curtly.
"I shall inquire into the matter directly I get home," the girl
continued, more quietly, "and if I see or suspect the faintest reason to
believe there is anything in what you say, Hugh shall at once come away,
and look for something else. Worthless, indeed!"--her wrath rising
again--"Why, he would be a very clever artist if only he could learn."
"There, there," said her uncle pettishly, "I may be wrong." But he was
fairly well convinced of the way in which matters stood, and felt a
twinge of discomfort as he made a shrewd guess at the feelings
entertained towards himself by young Charteris, should that young man
learn of the suspicion he had sown in the mind of his niece.
Luncheon over, they returned as they came--under the safe escort of
Thomas--and were once more established in the library.
Hazel consulted the clock. "I ought to leave here in half an hour," she
observed, making an effort to regain her composure, and resolutely
setting aside this new matter for troubled thought till she should have
quiet and leisure.
"By the way," Mr. Desborough began, "you said just now you were short of
pocket-money." He took from his pocket a book, and produced therefrom a
crisp piece of paper, which he handed to Hazel. He was experiencing a
new and strange sense of remorse, in that he had caused this bright
girl, if but for a moment, a disquieting thought, and he took himself to
task for a meddlesome old fool, interfering in matters that were better
left alone. He was anxious to conciliate his great-niece, but a trifle
doubtful as to how his overtures might be met. He, Percival Desborough,
was growing distrustful of himself, and oddly solicitous for the good
opinion of a slip of a girl, of whose very existence, a couple of hours
earlier, he was scarcely aware.
Hazel took the bit of paper. "What is it?" she asked, unfolding it
distrustfully.
"A banknote," her uncle returned. "Put it in your purse, and let me
know when it is gone."
Hazel flushed, refolded the note and handed it back. "You must not think
me ungenerous," she said gently, "or imagine that I am brooding over
anything that you have said; especially as you retracted the most--the
most unpleasant of your ideas about us; but you must own I could not
accept this."
"Tut-tut," her uncle retorted, surprised and somewhat disconcerted,
"stuff and nonsense! As if a young girl like you could not take a tip
from an old fellow like me! and her uncle to boot."
"I am sorry," Hazel replied determinedly, "but I really could not"; and
she again tendered him the note.
"Afraid of losing your dignity, are you?" he said. "Well, I have my
pride too, and I refuse to take it back."
Hazel pondered the situation. She was not unsympathetic with her uncle,
in the rather trying predicament in which he had placed himself, and
could enter into his feelings very nearly. But, strive as she might,
she could not put away his unkind, nay, his cruel, words, at the
beginning of their interview, spoken in pain as they were, and, mayhap,
in all thoughtlessness. But they were too fresh in her memory.
"I see your difficulty," she said at length. "What shall I do?"
"Do what you will," her uncle returned testily. He was not to be
worsted in the struggle.
There was a long pause, and the two combatants eyed the small,
innocent-looking cause of contention, that now lay upon a little table
beside them.
At length Hazel took it up, and was about to tear it to shreds and
transfer it to the waste-paper basket, deeming such a course the best
way to right the embarrassment, when suddenly light flooded her mind.
"I may do anything I like with it?" she demanded, her spirit rising, her
eyes flashing. "Anything, and in your name, seeing that the money is
not mine?"
"I don't care what you do with it," her uncle returned with asperity.
Hazel rose and rang the bell, then reseated herself and steadfastly
returned her uncle's gaze of mute hostility. The door opened and the
same servant appeared, silently closed the door behind him, and stood
awaiting orders.
"Thomas," said Hazel.
"Yes, Miss."
The man advanced a few steps.
"Your master wishes to make you this little present in recognition of
your long and faithful services," and she handed the astonished man the
obnoxious ten-pound note. "Doubtless he will do much more for you some
day," she added.
"Thank you, Miss," said the dazed Thomas.
Mr. Desborough threw back his head and broke into a hearty laugh, to the
added confusion of the poor man, who had not heard his master laugh for
years. But Uncle Percival offered no explanation. Recovering his
serenity, he turned to the servant.
"Order the carriage for 2.30 to take Miss Le Mesurier to Paddington
Station," he said briefly. "That is the least you can do for the young
lady; eh, Thomas?"
The footman left the room, and Mr. Desborough turned to his niece.
"Well," he said, "I acknowledge that you have worsted me in the fray;
and now, I suppose, I am committed to leave the fellow a legacy," and he
laughed again.
"You would wish to do so whether I had committed you to it or not, would
not you?" Hazel asked. She had fastened on her hat, and was now
proceeding to draw on her gloves.
Percival Desborough regarded her critically. "Have you any lovers,
child?" he asked abruptly.
Hazel was about to deny stoutly the existence of any such factor in her
life, when a vision of Digby Travers rose before her startled
imagination, to her discomfort and dismay.
"Well?" queried Uncle Percival. "You seem to be in uncertainty. Don't
tell me that a girl does not know when a young fellow is making himself
a fool over her."
Hazel raised a somewhat perplexed and flushed countenance, but she
looked her august relative squarely in the eyes. "If you had asked me
that yesterday," she said, "I should have answered no, without
hesitation--no one could have been more sure; but it was only this
morning that I began to be half afraid----" she paused.
"Don't like him, eh?" her uncle interposed. "What is his name?"
"I think I won't tell you, please," she answered. "You see, I simply
must be mistaken: it would be too ridiculous."
"Quite so," returned Uncle Percival. "You probably are mistaken. It
would be too ridiculous, quite too inconceivable," and he regarded her
quizzically.
"There is the carriage," Hazel said. "Good-bye, Uncle Percival."
She gave him her hand, and was surprised to find it retained--awkwardly
and without sentimentality, but, nevertheless, Uncle Percival held on to
the small member with a goodly grip.
"You would not care to give a cross old man a kiss, I suppose?" he
asked, in an odd voice.
Hazel bent lower, and with gracious dignity saluted her uncle's cheek.
At the same moment Thomas opened the door. "The carriage is waiting," he
announced, with a slight catch in his voice. Hazel walked out of the
room. Her uncle's eyes followed the little figure until the closing of
the door hid it from his sight. Then he looked, slowly and
discontentedly, around the room.
"It is quite true," he murmured aloud, "it is dark--much too dark."
*CHAPTER XI*
Doris and Phyllis Travers clung close to their friend and guest, Hazel
Le Mesurier, for the eve of her departure had come. This was the last
long day to be spent together, and they were determined to make the most
of it. With arms twined about one another's waists, the three slim
maidens sauntered through the sunny meadow toward the river, with the
intention of spending a couple of hours upon its banks in the quiet
enjoyment of one another's society.
"If you could only stay a day or two longer," sighed Doris, while
Phyllis edged yet closer, and in silence pressed the hand she held in
hers.
"I must go," Hazel said resolutely. "You see," she reiterated for the
third time, "you must be home for your birthday, rather particularly for
a seventeenth birthday."
With the first part of this assertion her friends agreed cordially, but
upon the soundness of the added clause they were dubious.
Twelve-year-old Phyllis nodded, meekly puzzled; sixteen-year-old Doris
looked for more, as one who, while wishing to be perfectly reasonable,
yet felt an explanation of so bold a statement to be her due.
Hazel was conscious of the lack of absolute sympathy, and set about
removing any doubts upon the point that it was but natural the two young
girls should entertain.
"Seventeen," she resumed, "is rather a special age. You might almost say
it marks an epoch in one's life. It is a great step from sixteen. At
sixteen you may think childhood is completely over and for ever gone,
but it isn't. Only you have to be seventeen to be aware how young
sixteen was"; and she regarded Doris meditatively. "It is an age," she
went on, "when, if your parents can afford it, you are presented at
Court and 'brought out.' You generally begin with a dance at home. You
put on your first long dress, you do up your hair, though, to be sure,
some young women wait for all this till they are eighteen." She paused.
"I think that is wiser," Doris said boldly, though with an inward
misgiving that Hazel might hold that her ideas upon the subject were not
valid, as issuing from the mouth of sixteen. "Seventeen seems too young
for all that sort of thing; and it is always sad to cut short one's
youth. I always tell Phyllis to keep young as long as ever she can."
"I don't see that it is sad! I don't know that youth is such a
particularly happy period of one's existence," Hazel began, but Doris
pursed her lips warningly, glancing significantly toward her young
sister, giving her worldly-wise friend to understand that they must suit
their conversation to the most youthful among them.
Hazel, while appreciating the wisdom that dictated the caution, could
not bring herself to own, in this instance, that such prudence was
necessary. She was about to make reply, when excited voices of
children, raised in distress, attracted the attention of the three
girls, and next moment they were running at full speed toward the spot
whence the cries proceeded.
"I am afraid one of them has fallen into the water," Doris panted.
"Leave it to me," Hazel gasped back, "I can swim. They may be only
quarrelling."
But a strange fear at her heart gave denial to her words, and urged her
on, ever faster. As they neared the bank, a small child emerged from
behind the line of willows that edged the water, and sped toward them in
wildest distress.
"Bobbie," she sobbed, "oh, he's drownded dead, he's drownded dead."
"Come and show me," Hazel called to the child as she passed, but the
little thing only stood wringing her hands.
There were other children upon the bank, however, and Hazel soon learned
that Bobbie had risen twice since his immersion, each time lower down
the stream. There was no time to lose if she would save the boy's life.
Tearing off her hat, she ran several yards lower, so far as she could
judge, than the spot where he had been last seen, and, springing into
the river, struck out and reached its centre, where the current was
strongest, at the same moment that the child's unconscious form rose for
the third time and drifted against her. With a little cry of
thankfulness, Hazel seized the helpless body, and, careful to keep the
head above water, began to return. It was difficult: the current was
strong, and she had only the use of one arm; her clothes hampered her
terribly; but at length she succeeded in bringing her burden to shore,
where many willing hands were held out to rescue. Hazel was panting
distressfully, but she did not lose a moment in setting about the task
of bringing breath back to the seemingly lifeless body. Phyllis she
sent post-haste to the house for brandy, and, bidding the little group
of children to stand back, she gave the child into Doris's arms.
"Hold him so," she gasped, "head down, so," and pulling the little
tongue well forward, she proceeded to give several smart punches upon
the pit of the stomach, thus ridding it of much of the water that the
child had swallowed in such large quantities. Then laying him gently
upon his back, she continued the work of resuscitation, lifting the arms
above the head, round and down to the sides, with slow, rhythmic motion,
expanding and contracting the lungs. So engrossed were the two girls,
that they were wholly unaware of the fact that a small party was
hastening toward them from the house, headed by two young men, who were
running some distance in advance. Doris was the first to perceive them,
and she gave an exclamation of relief. Hazel never looked up; her eyes
were riveted upon the small face, noting its death-like pallor; the
purple eyelids; watching, so far in vain, for the first tinge of colour,
for the first flicker of the eye-lashes that should tell of returning
life.
"Is the brandy coming?" she asked. Her back was well-nigh broken, but
she never paused in her labour of love and mercy, did not even wait to
wipe her hot brow, or to put back some teasing locks of hair that were
dripping into her eyes and down her cheeks. Indeed, she was hardly
conscious of aught else, in her growing anxiety, but the fact that life
was strangely long in returning to the little frame.
"I can see Phyllis coming," Doris replied, "but there are others much
nearer: Digby and--yes, Mr. Charteris, are nearly here. Perhaps they
are bringing the brandy."
Hazel worked on. In another minute the two young men were beside her,
eagerly proffering aid; and, to her immense relief, a large firm hand
was tendering her a flask. She seized upon it, and grew sick with
alternate hope and fear. She felt that the fiery liquid was the poor
little child's last chance--a very little while would decide now.
Trembling with anxiety, she set Doris to chafe the wrists and hands with
the potent fluid, whilst she moistened the blue, pinched lips, dabbed
the temples, and endeavoured to pour a few drops down the throat.
"Oh, for Christ's sake, for Christ's sake," the girl prayed, but her dry
lips refused to voice the prayer.
Did the little face look less ghastly, or was it her imagination? And
surely--yes, surely the eyelids quivered. With redoubled energy she
worked on.
"Can we help? Do tell us what to do," Paul's voice said. He was
kneeling at the child's feet, arranging a blanket round the limbs; Digby
paced up and down, never taking his eyes from the little group. Hazel
did not turn or start. It seemed natural that Paul should be there, in
case she wanted him. She made an effort to speak, but her throat was
too contracted. She could only answer him with a shake of her head.