and lips. Hazel gave a little sob of thankfulness--Doris began to cry;
it was saved, saved, this little life! The tension was broken; Hazel
staggered to her feet, dizzy with excitement and fatigue. Digby and Paul
lifted the child from the ground, and Digby made for the house with his
burden, well covered in the blanket, with all speed.
Hazel stood staring blankly after her charge; then, of a sudden,
self-consciousness stung her, acting as a momentary stimulus. What a
guy she must look--what a guy she had looked all this time, kneeling in
her clinging, dripping clothes and hair! How could she meet the little
party of people now close upon them, how manage to walk to the house!
She turned blindly, tremblingly, flushing red, to Doris and Paul. Then
the question answered itself; for the next moment Paul was wrapping a
second blanket around herself and, relieved of this and all other need
for thought or care, she quietly fainted away, and was borne to the
house in Paul's strong arms, all shame and distress gone from her.
Paul Charteris had come to pay a morning call at The Beeches, with
leisure to stay to lunch if asked to do so. He was yearning for a
glimpse of Hazel and desirous of learning the day that should terminate
her visit. Mrs. Travers was about to propose to her guest a stroll down
to the riverside in quest of her girls, at the moment of Phyllis's
breathless entrance and alarming demand for brandy. Paul's heart ceased
to beat for a space, for in the first confused account rendered by the
panting girl he only understood that Hazel had been in the water!
Quickly ascertaining the true state of affairs, the whole household
fared forth hurriedly, bearing blankets, and the invaluable liquor that
had saved the child's life--Paul and Digby running at top speed ahead.
Rescued and rescuer were soon warm and comfortable, for, once at the
house, nothing was lacking that could aid in their quick recovery. Mrs.
Travers and Doris soon had Hazel in dry clothes, and after the
administration of a hot drink of Mrs. Travers's own concocting, the
spent girl was easily persuaded to rest upon her bed. Every comfort,
too, was lavished upon little Bobbie; so that, when the child's mother,
Mrs. Boutcher, arrived, nothing remained but for her to sit beside his
couch and watch, with thankful heart, his peaceful slumber.
Hazel also slept; which circumstance Phyllis crept halfway down the
stairs to report, Paul halfway up, to learn; and he was able to leave
after lunch, satisfied that all was well with the patients. He stoutly
refused to have his coat dried, assuring good, kind Mrs. Travers that it
was not damp, or in the least way the worse for its close contact with
his dripping burden; in face of the fact that in the middle of the
shoulder of the grey tweed was a round dark patch of wet, where Hazel's
head had lain, and long streaks down his sleeve, where her dripping hair
had clung--a circumstance to be observed by all blessed with eyes to
see, and which Digby Travers noted with a pang of jealous misery. He
fully appreciated the feeling that prompted Paul's stout resistance, for
it would indeed be desecration to subject the garment to the rough
handling of a servant and to the drying influence of the kitchen fire!
For a while he left Paul to fight it out by himself as best he might.
Presently more generous feelings came to him, and he quickly put a stop
to his mother's importunate suggestions for the supposed comfort of her
guest by a half sullen, but affectionate: "Don't bother Charteris,
mother, he is all right"; and Paul darted a grateful look at his rival,
which, however, the other refused to meet.
Thus Mr. Charteris set out upon his homeward way, well pleased with his
visit. He had obtained his glimpse of Hazel--nay, more, had for the
space of nine or ten blessed minutes held her within his arms--here Paul
reverently touched the damp patch upon his shoulder; he had learnt that
she was to return home on the morrow; and, incidentally, so far as he
was concerned, he had called upon the Traverses and paid his somewhat
long-neglected respects. Further, he had learnt from the despondent
gloom upon Digby Travers's countenance, that this young man's love
affair was not prospering. Altogether it was very satisfactory.
A somewhat shaky Hazel descended to the drawing-room for tea, and right
gladly was she welcomed. No one could do enough for the little heroine.
She was soon installed in the easiest of easy chairs, and the dainties
of the tea-table were lavished upon her by Doris, Phyllis, the morose
Digby, and the sturdily admiring Francis.
"I say, where did you learn it all?" the potential farmer asked, sinking
down, with her cup in his hand, upon a hassock at her feet, and gazing
up at her from his point of vantage.
Hazel did not at once reply. She had lifted shy eyes, so soon as she
was settled to her friends' liking, and took a survey of the room. Mrs.
Travers was smiling upon her from the tea-table, where her duties as
mistress of the house held her prisoner; Mr. Travers, seated near his
wife, was nodding kindly approval; but Paul--Paul was not there, and the
girl at one and the same time experienced both disappointment and
relief.
"You might tell a fellow," pursued Francis. "If the little chap had
been left to me, well--he would not be alive to know it: that is one
good thing."
"I don't quite know--I must have read it somewhere," she answered a
trifle absently. Then rousing herself, she turned to Digby. "But
Bobbie owes his life to you and Mr. Charteris, as much as to me. You
were so prompt with the brandy and blankets; Phyllis was quick too, and
Doris helped so much. Please don't put it on to me, for we all worked
together."
But Bobbie's mother, who presently begged for, and obtained, an
interview with Bobbie's rescuer, was not to be put off in this wise.
She admitted that all thanks and praise were due to God; "but you were
His chief instrument, Miss," she averred again and again, "and as such
you might have done the work badly."
Hazel did not quite see the logic of this, but she held her peace,
believing it to be the kinder part to accept the thanks that the
grateful woman was so anxious to render her.
*CHAPTER XII*
Time--five o'clock in the afternoon. Scene--the homestead of Paul
Charteris, or rather that portion of the house, the windows of which
opened upon the verandah overlooking the green lawn that merged into the
Le Mesuriers' ground. The sky was dark and lurid. Thick, straight
lines of silver rain were striking slantwise upon the lawn, like giant
harp-strings, the wind playing discordant notes upon them, until the
prelude ended in a crash of thunder, and the whole power of the
invisible orchestra began.
For the last few days the weather had been immoderately hot, and it
seemed that, their last atom of patience chafed away by the discomfort
of the extreme heat, even the most worm-like among the spirits of the
air had turned at last, and in an access of irritable sensibility were
giving vent to their opinions, and flinging inertia and exhausted forces
to the winds. Some rode upon darkling clouds that scudded across the
angry heavens, colliding with one another in their haste: or, who shall
say, perhaps deliberately charging one another in their tempestuous
rage, making a veritable tilting-ground of that usually peaceful realm,
the clash of their invisible lances striking fire in vivid zig-zag
streaks, whilst the thunder of their contact seemed to shake the very
earth. Others again put their whole energy into the rain, as if seeking
to deluge the countryside; and mercilessly did they beat a little bowed
and huddled figure that emerged from the comparative shelter of the
trees, after a moment of fearful hesitation, and sped across the open,
making directly for the verandah.
Paul Charteris sat within his library, deeply brooding. He appeared to
be occupied at the writing-table, but for long his pen had remained
idle. He found difficulty in concentrating his thoughts upon the work
in hand; all sorts of pleasant and congenial fancies had hold of him.
But presently a tapping upon the window-pane began to attract his
attention intermittently, unconsciously teasing, till, shaking off his
reverie, he fell to blaming the gardener.
"That jasmine down again," ran his thoughts. "But perhaps it is hardly
Tompkins's fault, though I did tell him to see to it himself last
time--such rain and wind as this! But no, it cannot be the jasmine."
For the taps had become insistent, to an accompaniment of what sounded
like the kicking of a foot against the lower wood part of the
door-window--little, sharp, imperative kicks--and Paul, fully roused at
last, sprang to his feet, faced about, and saw in the dim light, to his
no small amazement, a muffled figure, the head shrouded in a long dark
cloak. He opened the window, and was about to resent this intrusion at
so private a part of the house, beginning with directions as to where
the doors were to be found, when the figure darted past him into the
room, with gesture and movement familiar to him; and letting the cloak
drop in a damp heap upon the floor, Hazel Le Mesurier stood laughing at
him.
"How astonished you look," she cried, "and it certainly is a queer
afternoon to choose for calling; but I did not have to put on my best
things to run over here, and I particularly want to see you; I have not
slept much for two nights thinking about it," she added, suddenly grave,
and seating herself in a lounge-chair with something of the gesture of a
tired child.
Paul stood still, his hand upon the open window, collecting his senses.
What a delicious, unexpected, utterly unlooked-for treat. He could
hardly believe in his good fortune.
"You had better shut the window," Hazel resumed, the least hint of
petulance in her tone. "See, the rain is driving in. Even the verandah
roof is not broad enough to keep out such rain. Oh dear, it was a
business to get here--but I had to come."
A slight uneasiness was beginning to mingle with Paul's delight. Did
the girl's mother know of her daughter's visit to him in this somewhat
unconventional, impulsive way? Probably not. Yet he durst not risk
offending the little lady by such a question, which, to say the least,
would hardly sound polite. Any way here she was, here, and the
storm-darkened room. seemed flooded with sunshine! Then a thought
struck him: Hugh had not left the house. He felt he ought to propose
fetching Hugh, but he was much afraid that Hazel would eagerly jump at
the chance of seeing her brother, in her sociable little way, and in her
utter indifference as to whether she was alone with Paul or not.
"You have not had tea?" Paul asked, closing the window and advancing
into the room. "Shall I ring for some, and--and ask Hugh to join us?"
"You can ring for tea," Hazel rejoined decisively, "but I don't want
Hugh here--at all events not just yet. He would be the very worst
person to overhear what I have to say. I must say it to you quite
alone."
Paul felt immensely relieved. He had done his duty; he had left the
settlement of a slightly embarrassing situation to the lady, and if that
lady forbade him to call a third person to the interview about to take
place, it was not for him to insist. Yet, on looking at her again his
conscience smote him. The lady was so young, so unsophisticated--his
bonnie Hazel--perhaps he ought to act for her, give her brotherly advice
and hints as to what was customary.
But no, he could not do it. If he succeeded in making her see at all
what he meant, it would be at the cost of embarrassing her, and nothing
would be more cruel than so to wound the girl.
He seated himself at some distance from her and divined, to his amused
chagrin, from her look of surprise, as she involuntarily glanced at a
chair near her own and thence to the one he had taken, that she had
momentarily deemed him unfriendly inclined, but was the next instant
content and satisfied with the reason of his action: the chair he had
taken was the more comfortable!
"You have forgotten to ring," she began; "but it is just as well,
because I shall only keep you a few minutes and then you can have tea,
and Hugh." Paul felt a third misinterpretation of his movements would
be a last straw. "I daresay you are pining for company this dull
afternoon," she continued; "and oh, Mr. Charteris," she broke off, "it
is very serious what I have to say."
"You shall tell me in a moment," he replied; "but are you not very wet?
Had I not better put a match to that firing? We could dry your cloak,
and you could put your feet to it. It seems I am always to see you
dripping, like a mermaid."
Hazel flushed at this allusion to the incident of two days since; but
now that he had brought it to her recollection, she took furtive glances
at the grey coat he was wearing, an uneasy sense that it was familiar to
her pervading her mind; and surely, yes, surely--or was it her
imagination?--a patch upon the right shoulder showed slightly darker
than the rest, as the flames he was kindling played upon his figure, us
if it was still somewhat damp.
She was in ignorance of the exact mode of her conveyance to the house,
but had shrewd suspicions--suspicions that made her too shy to ask
questions. She was sure of one thing: she had not walked.
"You are none the worse for your immersion, I hope?" Paul asked, still
busy with the fire. He knew that he was embarrassing her, but his
pleasure in her company made him mischievously inclined.
"No, thank you," Hazel answered demurely. "I am quite well."
Silence fell between them. "This is going to be a big blaze," Paul
remarked presently. "I hope you won't find it too hot."
"Oh no," Hazel replied rather vaguely. She was trying to screw up her
courage to ask that which she had come to ask. Why not out with, it
now, whilst his eyes were turned from her? Indeed, if she slipped into
that other chair, she would be quite out of his range of vision.
"Mr. Charteris," came a very small voice from somewhere behind him--she
had contrived the exchange of seats so quietly that he, intent upon his
work, had not noticed the movement--"Mr. Charteris, are you giving--that
is, are you in a sort of way--I mean, do you----" Her voice quavered,
and she stopped.
Paul wheeled round and stood before her, regarding her in amazement.
She looked up at him piteously, and then away again. Paul, half amused,
half concerned at the obvious perturbation and perplexity of mind under
which she was labouring, waited in silence, a silence fraught with
sympathy, for her to continue.
"Oh, could not you turn your back again?" she cried in desperation,
"and--and I'll try to tell you."
Paul, with one stride, was beside her and, kneeling upon one knee to
bring himself to her level, took both tremulous hands in his.
"What is it, little one?" he asked. "What is this dreadful, 'serious'
something you have on your mind?"
"Won't you please to go away or walk about?" she besought him.
But Paul knew that this would be just as difficult for her. "No," he
said firmly. "Just tell me, Hazel, and get it over."
"But perhaps it is horrid and--and unladylike of me," she wailed.
"Perhaps you will be hurt or offended."
"Tell me," he repeated gently.
Hazel moved restively in her chair. "I wish I had not come here," she
said rebelliously.
Paul waited, and then, with a little gasp, it all came out.
"It is about Hugh. Are you having him in--in charity?" Her voice sank
to a whisper upon the last, fateful word, and she lay back in her chair,
and tightly closed her eyes. What would he say? How would he take it?
She had not the courage to look at him.
But Paul never seemed to fail her--he did not fail her now. "Hazel," he
said quietly, after a long pause, "what put such an idea into your
head?"
"Uncle Percival," Hazel answered laconically, with startling
promptitude. Slowly she opened her eyes, but she turned her look away
from him.
Paul rose to his feet and quietly began to pace the floor. "Uncle
Percival ought to be--boiled," he said at length, indignantly. "How
came he to mention the topic at all to you?"
"I called upon him," Hazel rejoined; and she proceeded to relate what
had passed between herself and her relative.
"You are a plucky child to have 'bearded' him," Paul observed, when she
had finished. He had heard much of "Uncle Percival," but little to his
credit.
"Oh, he was not so bad," Hazel said, modestly disclaiming the
compliment. "I was frightened of him at first, but he got nicer and
nicer. In the end," she added naively, "he asked me to kiss him. That
was quite friendly of him, was not it?"
"Very friendly indeed," Paul answered, his views concerning "Uncle
Percival" undergoing a quick change. "I had no idea he was so--so
human. And--and--did you?"
"Oh yes," Hazel said blandly. "Just a quick one on the cheek, you
know--not at all as you would kiss mother, or as you would hug the
boys."
"Just so," Paul returned meekly. "The old ruffian did not deserve such
luck," was his inward comment.
There was a somewhat lengthy pause, devoted by Paul to pondering the
subject. But of a sudden he looked up to find the girl regarding him
beseechingly.
"You--you have not answered yet," she said, timidly reminding him.
"Need I say anything?" he asked, amused at her insistence. "Do you not
know me better than to suspect me of doing such a thing? Why, it would
not only be an insult to Hugh, but Mrs. Le Mesurier would be quick to
see through, and resent, such interference."
Hazel gave vent to a sigh of relief; and Paul went on. "How could you
credit such a suspicion for a moment? Don't you see how pleasant it is
for me to have some one about that I know and like? Why, that in itself
is worth the--the mere salary, let alone the fact that he is really
useful. Are you satisfied? Do you believe me?" And he regarded his
visitor quizzically.
"Of course," Hazel said generously, and with a little flush. "Between
you and me," she continued, "I could not help feeling, from what I know
of Hugh, that there might be a certain amount of truth about the char--,
in what Uncle Percival said," she amended. "There is no denying that
Hugh has not much of a business head, and--and that, therefore, it
follows that he cannot be quite as useful to you as you would wish.
I--I could not help feeling that the new man you think of engaging could
easily do it all, you know. But I quite believe you," she added
sincerely, feeling apologetic for harping upon the subject, or, indeed,
for adding a single word after having acknowledged herself satisfied;
having clinched, so to say, with Paul in faith and trust. "But he would
make a splendid artist, would not he?" she said enthusiastically.
"Yes," Paul replied, "he is very clever. It is a thousand pities that
he cannot take it up; for, I will admit, he would make a better artist
than secretary."
Hazel glowed with gratified pride. "Well," she said, "I must go. Hugh
had better not see me. He would, of course, want to know why I had
come."
Paul smothered a sigh. "But your feet," he objected. "Are your shoes
properly dry?"
"Oh, I think dry enough," she returned. "They will be wet again by the
time I am home."
"You will change then, of course?" Paul asked anxiously, and Hazel
promised she would.
"By the way," Hazel remarked, "it was my birthday yesterday." They had
both risen, and the girl turned her back upon him as she spoke, and
stood looking pensively from the window.
"Yes," Paul returned.
"You knew?" Hazel asked.
"Of course," he answered. There was a pause.
"Why didn't you come then? We--they quite missed you."
"I was not asked," Paul explained earnestly. "I thought you might have
special plans for the day, and that I might be in the way."
Hazel waited, dissatisfied, for more; but no more, it seemed, was
forthcoming.
"You did not even wish me many happy returns of the day," she commented,
still turning from him.
"No," Paul admitted, with unwonted and seemingly unnecessary sternness.
"Well," she remarked, not knowing whether to be more hurt or surprised,
"I--I think you might."
"You know I wish you everything the world has to give--all good and all
blessings," Paul broke out, a marked fervour in his tone, and paused.
"Yes?" Hazel asked, a little breathless, with a sense of being somewhat
overpowered.
"As to gifts," Paul went on desperately, "I would come with my arms
full--I would lay all I had at----" He broke off, and with an effort
seemed to pull himself together.
"You need not make such a lot of it," Hazel expostulated, in innocent
surprise. "It is not a twenty-first, or anything so important as that.
And even if it were, I should only expect, supposing you wished to give
me anything at all, that is, I should only expect one present; just a
small remembrance, you know, the--the usual thing."
"There is no usual----" He stopped short and endeavoured to recover
himself. "Hazel," he said quietly, "you have not thought the omission
due to carelessness, or doubted my--my friendship?"
"Oh no," Hazel declared, "and I did not think of presents: they never
entered my head. And as to the wishes--well, you have wished them now,
and thank you very much," she added, somewhat hurriedly, half fearful of
a repetition of the very full measure, so fervently expressed. "The
rain has stopped. I will start at once."
She left her cloak, at Paul's urgent request, to be dried and returned
to her later. She stepped out of the French window and, turning, gave
her hand to Paul.
"I am so glad I came and cleared it all up--about Hugh," she said
warmly. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he rejoined, "and many, many happy returns of yesterday," he
added, dropping the hand.
Something in his tone puzzled Hazel, and she looked at him wonderingly.
"How odd Paul, that is, Mr. Charteris, is to-day," she mused as she sped
across the lawn.
*CHAPTER XIII*
"My dear child," exclaimed Helen Le Mesurier, "what an afternoon to
choose for walking!"
Mrs. Le Mesurier was seated in the recess of the sparsely furnished
hall, where tea was usually served. She had already partaken of that
refreshment, but set about making more at sight of her daughter. Hazel
gratefully accepted a cup and seated herself for a chat.
"I have not been for a walk," she said; "at least, I have walked, but
not for walking's sake. I have been calling upon Mr. Charteris."
Helen looked surprised, as naturally she might.
"Hazel!" she expostulated. "What purpose could you have had? He comes
here so often. Could you not have asked my advice as to going? It
looks a little odd--a young girl calling by herself," she added gently.
"Paul will think it odd."
She knew her child, and that slight reproof was enough--the least hint
that intimated forwardness, in a way, too much; yet both must be given:
such was a mother's duty.
The girl's face flushed red, and hastily setting down her cup, she
looked at her mother in mute distress.
"Oh, surely not," she pleaded; "surely he thought it perfectly
natural--just as I did, mother. I--I wanted to see him very
particularly. I could not wait for him to come. If I had waited I
might not have had the opportunity of saying what I wanted to say--it
was about Hugh."
"You found Hugh there, of course?" Helen interposed comfortingly. "That
makes things better. May mothie come into the mystery about Hugh?"
She had made the useful and necessary suggestion of incorrectness in her
young daughter's action, and knew that she need say no more upon the
subject--that she might with safety pour oil upon the little wound she
had perforce inflicted, and bind it up to her child's comfort: for the
sensitive girl would not so err again. But the kind words, spoken to
bring consolation, brought instead new apprehension to Hazel.
"He was in the house," she admitted: "but he was not----" She broke
off, of a sudden recollecting how Paul had proposed Hugh's presence, and
how she had forbidden it. "Mr. Charteris wanted to call him and I would
not let him. Oh, do you believe he will think me a horrid, bold sort of
person?" and she looked beseechingly for her mother's reply.