daughter's face: the idea of the possessor of that face being considered
a "horrid, bold sort of person" proving almost too ludicrous for the
maintenance of gravity: delicate, sensitive, refined, beautiful as a
flower; just now tremulous, beseeching.
"No," she admitted, after what was to Hazel an agonised pause, "I don't
think he will." And the smile had its way. "But tell me, dearie, why
you went at all."
So Hazel told all, beginning at Uncle Percival's uncomfortable and
startling suggestion, that Paul Charteris was giving in charity to the
Le Mesuriers, through the medium of the "worthless young man"--Hugh. She
had before told her mother of the visit to her uncle; and Helen, half
amused, half concerned, had not wholly disapproved of her girl's
spiritedness; but this portion of the conversation during that visit
Hazel had before omitted to report, not wishing to anger her mother
against Mr. Desborough, or indeed to disturb her peace of mind until
she, Hazel, had first ascertained the truth.
"So you see how I did it all for the best, mother. You see how important
it was to learn the truth, and at once, without troubling you, dearest,
if I could possibly help it."
"Yes, dearie, I do see. So, I know, does Paul. Do not be troubled about
it any more. Only remember that we must, none of us, defy certain
conventionalities--we must observe rules by which to regulate our
behaviour. They mostly have their good sense and usefulness, though at
times we may find them irksome, and tiresome to follow, and feel
impatient at their restrictions."
"Yes, mother," rejoined the pretty penitent, meekly.
And then followed one of those close embraces in which mother and
daughter were wont to indulge at the termination of every discourse
between them, that held in it anything in the nature of reprimand and
submission; expressing full, free, and loving forgiveness on the
mother's part, and sincere contrition and penitence on the part of the
loving daughter.
But the discomforting impression that Hazel had received, that Paul
might be thinking her forward, proved disastrous to that young man's
peace; for Hazel did her utmost to avoid him, and managed, with most
unlooked-for success, to elude meetings--generally slipping away to her
own room if he came to the house, and seldom risking discovery by
spending much time in her tree; though, had he but known it, one Sunday
morning she was holding church there, as was her wont; but she kept so
absolutely still, as he passed beneath the branches, the full midsummer
leafage of which afforded so complete a screen as to hide entirely any
living thing that took refuge there among, be it bird, beast, or--girl,
that she was not discovered.
One morning poor Hazel's story was returned, with the editor's
compliments and regrets. The girl retired within herself, concerning
this great disappointment, until such time as she could confide in
Teddie, and receive advice as to her further movements.
Saturday came at last, and a very sober Hazel met the afternoon train,
bringing Teddie alone. Gerald, he said, was following by the next.
"And it is just as well, Hazel," the boy added, wearily. "I am nearly
off my head with worry. And though, of course, you cannot help a fellow,
still you can sympathise with a chap and ease him a bit."
At once Hazel's own troubles became insignificant, and she was all
attention; but, as was her custom, she did not press her sympathy upon
him in words, but walked on beside him, earnest-faced and ready-witted,
waiting for what he should choose to tell her.
"I want five pounds," her brother broke out at length, "and five pounds
I must have."
Hazel's heart sank. What a nuisance money was!
"Now the question is how I am to get it," Teddie went on. "Your story
will bring in quite that--and you would, I know, lend me the cash. But
goodness knows when you will hear of it again. Editors are the dickens
for keeping people waiting."
"He did not keep _me_ long," said Hazel, mournfully, and she drew from
her pocket the ill-fated manuscript, and Teddie, with incredulous horror
in his eyes, read slowly: "The Victoria Cross and How it was Won," twice
through before he could believe the evidence of his senses.
"The fellow will never get on," he told Hazel dispassionately. "He will
come to no good end. He has not the first essentials for getting on in
his particular business. He does not know a good thing when he sees it;
he does not know what suits the public taste, and probably cares less.
Well, I pity him."
"But his magazine is a very good one, I mean of high standing"--Hazel
ventured timidly, thinking Teddie's calm not altogether natural or
healthy--"and it is very well known."
"Mere luck," announced Teddie. "It won't last It can't. But I shall go
and ask for an explanation," he continued, his anger rising, somewhat to
his sister's relief. "He will have to satisfy me."
"He seemed rather nice, if you remember," Hazel observed, in just
defence of the roundly abused editor. "That is the worst of it. If he
had been, well, a disagreeable sort of man, whom you strongly suspected
of being ultra-critical and ill-natured, why, then, one would try again
with a light heart. But, Teddie, I cannot help thinking he would have
taken it if he could."
"You either forget what I told you of the stories he has accepted, or
else you have no faith in my judgment, Hazel," Teddie returned
censoriously. "I can assure you he has taken all sorts of trash. I
have seen it--in print."
"And you do not think mine trash?" Hazel asked doubtfully.
"No," declared the loyal Teddie, half defiantly, "I don't. And that
moonlight scene after the battle, and the battle itself, if it comes to
that, are just ripping."
They halted upon the roadway, Teddie to light a cigarette, Hazel to open
and unfold the manuscript, to refresh her memory on the parts so highly
commended. Together they stood awhile, he reading over her shoulder;
but the reconsideration of her work brought the girl no comfort. Even
to her youth and inexperience the story appeared crude, obviously the
writing of a beginner--and a very young one, of no especial talent.
Even her brother began to experience a disquieting sense of imperfection
as he read on. Somehow the tale lacked the brilliancy of dramatic force
that he had, on first reading, attributed to it; and for the first time
he was uneasily conscious of a desire to laugh in quite the wrong
places. But he was not going to discourage his sister altogether for
all that, though perhaps it would be true kindness to discontinue such
unqualified commendation.
"I expect your bad writing put him off," he said at length, with
brotherly bluntness. "You ought to have got me or Digby or some one to
write it out neatly for you."
"Yes?" questioned Hazel, only half reassured. "Do you think that would
have made all the difference, Teddie?"
"It might," Teddie affirmed with, however, less assurance than
heretofore. It was, after all, false kindness to give nothing but
praise. "But if it is not that, it may be the--the 'vision' they don't
like; and you know, Hazel, I am beginning to doubt myself whether it has
not got a ludicrous side. Do you think yourself that it is natural?
_Would_ the mother be knocking about a battlefield, thousands of miles
from home?"
"Perhaps she would not," admitted poor Hazel. "But you see, Teddie, she
was supposed to be a widow with no other children, and very, very fond
of this only son, whom she follows to the front unbeknown to him, having
no home ties to keep her in England."
The girl looked wistfully for her brother's next comment.
"I think," he said decidedly, as they walked on again, "that you have
too much killing in your style. I admit that you are good at it, but it
may not be liked, especially in a woman writer. It is--it is hard, you
might say blood-thirsty. Just look how you kill them off," he continued
ruthlessly, waxing eloquent in his theme, "wholesale!"
Hazel looked somewhat shocked as this appalling idea was presented to
her.
"Teddie," she gasped, "where--where have I killed them off so? Of
course you have to have deaths in battle. It is one of the horrors of
war."
"It is not only the battle," Teddie insisted. "It is not only
generally, so to speak, but you delight in bringing deaths into private
life. Look at your hero's family, for example: how you have to make
that wretched woman widowed and childless; excepting, of course, the
hero himself, but even him you bring to the point of death. It is not
good art," he concluded, shaking his head.
"Yes," she admitted sadly; "perhaps it is a rather unwomanly trait in my
writing."
"I am glad you see it," her brother returned, softening somewhat. "Why,
you have only got to have a murder in it to make 'Battle, Murder, and
Sudden Death' an excellent title."
"Well," Hazel declared, after a pause, "I shall give up trying to make
money in that way. My only real gift is music. There is no doubt about
it, that I should never make an author. If only people would hire me to
sing at little concerts. You know what a success I am at the school
concert at Christmas-time, and how old Jonathan Higgins would walk ten
miles to hear 'My mother bids me bind my hair,' as I sing it. I am
thinking of that five pounds, old fellow," she added dismally.
"Yes, by Jove!" Teddie rejoined, and relapsed into silence. "Since my
rise," he began presently, "I have been in constant difficulties. It is
always the way. When you have not a halfpenny, you do nothing and go
nowhere."
Hazel nodded. She longed to ask her brother to what extent he had
broken through this wise regime, but held her peace.
"I date my difficulties from the day when I gave a champagne lunch to
five fellows I know."
"The day of the rise?" his sister asked shrewdly, awed by this peep into
dissipated life.
"You have got it," Teddie admitted. "It may have been foolish, but the
fellows have stood me treat often enough--or offered to--and my usual
answer, that I did not go in for society because I could not afford to
do my part, did not always work, you know. I got talked over. Since
then," he continued, "I have stood a theatre or two, and--well, the long
and short of it is, that Mrs. Walters, our landlady, wants her rent, and
is beginning to make a nuisance of herself."
Hazel thought of the ten pounds that she had bestowed on her uncle's
servant; but, troubled as she was for her brother, she could not repent
her of the deed.
"You can't borrow of Hugh or Gerald?" she ventured gently.
"No," Teddie told her. "We have once for all agreed not to borrow from
each other, and it is not a bad plan: for though it is dashed hard luck
that _I_ am bound down not to borrow of them, I am thankful to think
they cannot borrow of me," he added ruefully.
"Yes," Hazel returned, struck with the sense of this, "that certainly is
a good thing. Well," she added, "you must let me think it well over. I
will do my best, Teddie, to help you."
Already a half-formed plan had arisen in her mind, but she greatly
wondered whether she could bring herself to go through with it.
Certainly she could not for herself; yet for Teddie it was
different--for Teddie she could do much.
Presently they left the roadway, clambered up a high bank, and plunging
through a tangle of brambles, entered the cool, leafy walks of their own
grounds--a delicious relief after the dust and glare. The foliage was
just now at its full, and for the most part of a dark green, each leaf
heavy, thick, and strong, with as yet no hint of autumn in its
perfection of maturity. Elm, lime, beech, horse-chestnut, oak, copper
beech, silver birch, feathery larch, ash, fir, and pine; what an
enthralling medley of delight! The great tree branches, heavy to
repletion, waved stately in the gentle summer wind, dignified, majestic,
all the sportiveness of youth and spring-time gone; rugged-barked,
smooth-barked, light grey; green trunks, whitey-grey trunks, almost
black trunks; gnarled, veined, moss-grown, creeper-covered; the
unspeakable grace of the smaller boughs growing from out the larger
limbs: each shapely twig, after a series of knots and delicate
articulations, terminating in a leaf of perfect outline, each
indentation clearly defined, the edges of some almost fluted in the
vigour of their full, crisp growth.
What was there in her beloved woodland that the girl did not know and
love; from the swelling, bursting buds of spring--nay, before that, when
the bare, brown twigs had nothing to show, save a certain swollen look,
and yet seemed instinct with life--to the falling of the leaf? Some
leaves there were of such tenacity that only the insistent pushing and
shooting of the spring buds could at last succeed in ousting the poor
crumpled yellow or brown thing from its place. And oh, the flooring of
the woods in autumn; the rustling of one's tread through the fallen
leaves of many hues; the crunch of the little triangular beech-nuts,
still in their rough, brown, lily-shaped, gaping pods, or fallen out of
them, the more ready to hand for the squirrels; the acorns, smiling up
green and smooth, half in half out of their dainty brown cup, looking as
if a squeeze at the cup's base would cause the slippery nut to shoot out
like a benignant green bullet; fir-cones like miniature pineapples cut
in cork; spiky pine needles, that only bent in mockery if you tried to
prick anything with them; softly bristling chestnut burrs, all agape,
discovering the shining red-brown treasure within; and patches of
bracken, never far to seek.
In another month's time, Hazel knew, such autumn delights would begin.
Just now, nothing could be lovelier than the dense, heavy foliage of
full summer; for the shades of green were rich in their many gradations,
whilst the grey mosses and woodland grasses gave change in plenty to the
eye.
On reaching home, they found a visitor with Helen, in the person of Mr.
Charteris. Hardly a visitor, so Hazel thought, in momentary dismay--he
seemed to live at Hazelhurst. There was no escaping this time, as
hostess and guest were awaiting the two to begin tea, at which her
mother liked the girl to preside. Down she sat in their midst,
pink-cheeked, and very busily did she occupy herself--tea-making seemed
to have become the most soul-absorbing work, calling for her undivided
attention.
All this was terribly apparent to poor Paul. It must be himself she was
shunning--she was not usually so engrossed, surely, as not to be able to
join in the chat, or notice any one, but just steadily fill and refill
cups, with stern precision, taxing her memory upon the momentous
question of little milk, much milk, one lump, two lumps, no sugar, tea
rather weak, tea strong, tea average. "Dear me," thought Paul, "what a
lot there is in tea-making if one notices, and I have always thought it
so simple."
Presently he asked her if he could help--do something besides handing
dishes. She only grew yet pinker-cheeked, refused to look at him--Paul
was sure she was aware that he was trying to make her look--and said
there was really nothing to do. And she effected her escape as soon as
possible, partly, Paul suspected wretchedly, to avoid giving him her
hand. And yet, in contrariness, no sooner did she hear him go than she
felt inclined to cry, and longed, with a strange inconsistency that
puzzled herself, to run after him--to let her hand rest in that strong,
dear grasp of his for a few moments, whilst she assured him there was
nothing, nothing the matter.
*CHAPTER XIV*
"OSBORNE HOUSE, LANCASTER GATE,
"_July_ 12, 19--.
"MY DEAR HELEN,
"It may not be news to tell you that I am a lonely old man; but how
lonely and, for the matter of that, how old, I am but now beginning to
realise. The realisation came upon me with the visit of that girl of
yours--Hazel, she said her name was; rather an absurdly fanciful name,
by the way: but there, I won't carp, and it suits the child. I confess
to you that she has taken me by storm; I have tried to fight against
such feelings, called myself a sentimental old fool, in my second
childhood, which is probably the right explanation; but however that may
be, the feeling remains. She came into this dreary house like a breath
of country, this Hazel of yours, and set me thinking of woods, nuts,
berries, and flowers. Spirited, too: gave as good as she got from the
old man. The long and short of it is: will you allow the child to stay
with me for a short while? I know I have no claim upon you, no right to
ask favours--I never for a moment imagined it possible that I _should_
ever ask a favour. That I have, and no small one, I grant, is in itself
an apology for the past--a holding out of the olive-branch and all the
rest of it. Don't keep me waiting long for your answer. As I said
before, I am a sentimental old fool, in my dotage, and I am lonely, or I
should never have brought myself to the pitch of courage necessary for
writing to you--of risking the probable humiliation of being denied what
I ask--which, I admit, is all I deserve at your hands.
"However you may decide concerning my request, let there be peace
between us for the girl's sake, and for the sake of old times. Let me
once again have the privilege of signing myself
"Your affectionate uncle,
"PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH."
"HAZELHURST, BERKS,
"_July_ 13, 19--.
"MY DEAR UNCLE,
"It was with mingled pleasure and pain that I read your letter. I know
full well you are lonely. In my girlhood I can remember you as a
kindly, sociable man--sociable in a domestic sense: I cannot remember
that you ever cared for society. And it is unlikely that one should so
change in one's later years as to be happy and content, with doors
barred against one's nearest kin; living on alone, entertaining hard
thoughts and, dear uncle, let me say unjust thoughts, of those of whom
one was once fond. I gladly take the extended olive-branch.
"Do not think me ungenerous, if I say that I cannot make up my mind to
allow Hazel to stay with you. She is my only daughter, and your house,
devoid as it is of women-folk, is not the place I should choose for a
young girl. May I suggest that she should come to spend a day with you,
and, need I say, dear uncle, how pleased I should be if you would visit
us here, if you could bring yourself to put up with our plain faring and
simple ways?
"Your affectionate niece,
"HELEN LE MESURIER.
"P.S.--We can easily accommodate your servant."
"OSBORNE HOUSE, LANCASTER GATE,
"_July_ 14, 19--.
"MY DEAR HELEN,
"I must not grumble at your decision. I will think over the proposal
you make, that I should come down to Hazelhurst to stay a while. In the
meantime send the girl on Friday next, if convenient to you. The
carriage shall meet the train.
"Your affectionate uncle
"PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH.'
When Hazel heard she was asked to go and see her uncle again, she was
half pleased, half dismayed. The plan she was evolving for helping
Teddie was at once made simpler: for it was to Uncle Percival that she
was about to turn for aid, if she could sufficiently crush down her
pride. The very difficulty of getting to him, had made her plan seem
easy and feasible. But now that this difficulty was removed, she found
her little scheme of a sudden assume terrible proportions. However,
there was no harm in going: there was nothing _infra dig._ or
humiliating in that; and once there, she could feel her way as to what
she should confide and what leave unsaid.
When Paul Charteris heard of the prospective visit, he begged to be
allowed to drive Hazel to the station; and Helen agreed that it was a
long, hot, dusty walk with which to begin a day's outing.
"I think," she added, "that you may take it for granted that Hazel will
like to drive--she is not here to ask--yet she was a moment ago. Where
has she gone?"
No, of course, Hazel was not there. She had heard Paul coming, and,
with a murmured excuse to her mother, had fled precipitately.
"By the way, dear, Paul proposes driving you to the station," her mother
told her, when the eventful day arrived.
The girl flushed, and then grew pale. "Oh, mother," she exclaimed. "I
should rather have walked. Miles could have taken me."
Helen looked her surprise. "But it is so hot and dusty, Hazel. You
will be quite tired by the time you reach London. I am sorry, dear, but
I felt so sure you would like to drive. You so love driving," she
added, puzzled, somewhat at a loss.
Then a thought struck her.
"Has Paul offended you in any way?" she asked gently, of a sudden. "Is
it my fancy, or are you avoiding him?"
"Oh no; he has not offended me," the girl made answer hastily,
evasively. "But I love the walk, and--oh well, it does not matter,
motherling." And the disturbed young face kissed the anxious one
reassuringly, and Hazel went off to make herself ready.
It was a very demure young lady, whom Paul handed into the trap, half an
hour later; but, though she had regained her outward composure, her
spirit had risen in revolt against her charioteer. She felt like a
little snared hare, and was angry and shy all at once. She sat beside
him mute, looking straight before her, and Paul from time to time
endeavoured to get a peep at the face beneath the hat-brim.
"We will drive slowly," he remarked at length. "If I give Ben Dyson his
head, we should be at the station in ten minutes, and we have a good
half-hour. Isn't it glorious weather?"
Hazel admitted that it was, and again relapsed into silence.
"You are very quiet," Paul observed presently. "Won't you talk to me,
Hazel? I do hope you are not thinking it presumptuous in me, that I
asked to drive you," he added anxiously.
Hazel's soft little heart began to melt. After all, it was very kind of
him, and thoughtful. How was he to know she wanted to keep out of his
way? She did not wish him to know; she hoped that, if by chance he
noticed that he saw less of her than usual just now, he would put it
down to mere coincidence. Probably he had not noticed; she hoped
not--she did not wish to hurt or annoy him.
"No," she answered quickly. Then, with shyness, gratitude, and dignity
all fighting together, she added: "It was very kind of you--very. But I
am fond of walking. I--I thought you might have asked me, and not
mother," she concluded, with some severity.
Then Paul determined to have it out with her. "Hazel," he asked, with
grave directness, "answer me truly. Have I offended or hurt you in any
way?"
He tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but it was turned from him, her
eyes in busy contemplation of the hedgerow.
"No; oh no," she said hurriedly. "You have never seen Uncle Percival,
have you?" she asked, bent upon turning the conversation. Paul was
rather alarming, when earnest and grave and unchatty.
"Hazel," he persisted, "tell me: Do you or do you not like driving?"
"Oh, very much!" she exclaimed enthusiastically; "and it is a long,
dreary walk," she added, off her guard.
Then came a terrible silence. Paul was too generous to take advantage
of the slip, and Hazel, feeling an irrepressible desire to know the
worst that his face might be expressing, glanced up hastily as she
turned to view, with absorbing interest, the farther hedge.
He was smiling quietly to himself and looking very satisfied over
something. So much her brief look told her, and she felt her resentment
again rising.
"One can like driving, and yet have reasons for wishing to walk," she
said severely, again taking up her weapon, but this time in some
trepidation.
"Of course," he answered lightly. "One might object to the
companionship of one's driver."
No response from Hazel.
"Is that it, Hazel?" he asked presently.
Still no reply.
"I have feared for some little time," he resumed, "that you have been
avoiding my society. I cannot tell you how the suspicion has grieved
me. I have spent much time in wondering wherein I have erred. Won't you
tell me, Hazel, and set me right?"
Sympathetic Hazel was much distressed. "You have done nothing," she
said earnestly, "nothing. Please do not think so again."
"But something has happened," he persisted, "and I think I have a right
to know what, as it concerns myself so deeply. Don't you admit my
right?"
"It does not concern you," she repeated, and hesitated. "One can offend
oneself sometimes," she added desperately, enigmatically. "I offended
myself a little while ago. You are not in the least to blame. Oh,
please, do not talk of it any more."