compartment for Hazel's exclusive use. This was easily done, as the
early morning city train, with its many passengers, was gone some time
since, and there were few to go by this. A handsome tip to the guard
settled the matter: Hazel was to be locked in. Having seen her seated,
he proceeded to furnish her with all sorts of illustrated papers and a
dainty basket of grapes from a fruit-shop outside the station. Then,
everything completed to his satisfaction, he leaned upon the door of the
carriage as she sat within, amidst a very sea of papers.
"Don't look at that yet," he pleaded, in remonstrance, as she took up a
magazine. "It is only two minutes till time is up."
Hazel obediently laid down the journal. It would be unkind to go on
puzzling him, now that she knew he had noticed her avoidance of him, and
was aware that something had troubled her. It would be particularly
ungracious too, after all this recent kindness. Besides, it was easier
here: he was farther away, and she breathed more freely. Surely she
could look at him once or twice, and talk in a natural manner? She did
look at him. He was regarding herself earnestly.
"Hazel," he said humbly, "am I forgiven for not asking your permission,
direct, for driving you?"
"Yes," Hazel said with dignity, rearranging the fruit in the basket.
"Thank you," he answered, with courtly gravity, "and--and you did not
mind _me_ driving you?"
"No," she admitted graciously. The train beginning to move, she handed
him, through the window, half her bunch of purple grapes, as an earnest
of her favour; and Paul, reading in the resolute little face, that
protest was useless, accepted the gift in meek gratitude.
The short railroad journey was uneventful enough. The girl sat
comfortably, immersed in papers. It is true, her mind was slightly
distracted by their number; but when it had occurred to her to take them
all with her to her uncle's house, it mattered less what she read first,
the distressful doubt, that she might be missing the best things, being
thus overcome. The grapes she left untouched. Grapes, she argued, were
not a fruit for persons in rude health like herself; they were
essentially a delicacy for invalids. She would try to take them home
for her mother; but if her uncle should chance to be specially fond of
them, and she caught him eyeing them in wistful greed--why, then he
should have them. Was not the poor man more than half an invalid?
The well-contented guard passed with respectful salutation at every
station, and lingered by her window--not intrusively or in any way
causing offence, but in a manner that inspired confidence, and rendered
communication easy, should his charge wish to say or ask anything.
Generally it was a broad back that presented itself, a yard or two from
the window. Hazel could not discover that he walked sideways, yet it
was wonderful how the back was suddenly _there_; also was it marvellous
how his numerous duties: seeing luggage in and out of the vans, the
shouting of instructions, the assisting out and showing in of
passengers, even the closing of doors left open by phlegmatic men or
ladies in clean gloves, finally the waving of the green flag--all seemed
to be efficiently accomplished in front of, or curiously near to, her
own compartment.
She had half a mind to give him the grapes: he looked so very warm; but
upon reflection she came to the conclusion that a glass of beer, in
which he might indulge at the cost of a very small diminution of Paul's
tip, would be a more appropriate refreshment for a hot railway guard
than grapes, and in all probability more to his taste. Besides, her
mother, even her uncle, would appreciate them more.
At Paddington Station the guard could not do enough for her. He seemed
quite distressed that more was not required of him, and inclined to
think Thomas, Mr. Desborough's footman, officious! He was gratified,
however, with the girl's prettily expressed thanks for his care of her,
and by her friendly little nod of farewell.
If Thomas experienced any feeling of surprise at the surfeit of reading
matter Miss Le Mesurier bade him collect, he doggedly concealed any such
emotion, and followed the little lady down the platform with a pile,
carried traywise, between his two hands, bearing in its centre the
basket of grapes, to the waiting carriage.
A few minutes later she found herself entering the same room, in which
her uncle had received her before; but this time she was not so fearful.
"You seem to have been plentifully provided with entertainment for the
journey," her uncle observed, half rising to receive a timid kiss upon
his left whisker, his eye lighting upon the heap that a servant was
placing on a side-table. "Is that young Edward again, he of the buns,
or are all your brothers given to reckless expenditure?"
"It was not any of the boys this time," Hazel replied laughing; "Mr.
Charteris got them. I could not finish even one, so I thought I would
bring them with me. It seemed a pity to leave so many in the train."
"Mr. Charteris, eh? That is the elderly Paul, is not it?" the old man
asked, chuckling. He was in high good-humour, more free from pain than
had been the case for some time, and bent upon enjoying the society of
this naive girl, his great-niece, to whose visit he had looked forward
with a sense of pleasure that surprised himself.
"Elderly?" Hazel questioned, at a loss.
"Why, yes," her uncle returned. "You said he must be thirty and more.
But you would not allow he was bald."
Hazel had at once noticed the absence of wrappings about the poor gouty
foot, which to-day was encased, like its fellow, in a comfortable
slipper; and guessed, in glad sympathy, that her uncle's health was much
improved since her last visit. But she did not inquire after it; she
did not believe in the wisdom or kindness of at once driving the poor
man's thoughts back upon the subject that too generally held them, and
from which, in all probability, they had not long strayed.
She seated herself in companionable proximity, and fell to talking of
family news and family doings, since they two had last met.
"And your story?" her uncle asked presently.
"It came back," Hazel said, shaking her head dolefully. "I was
particularly sorry, as I had a special and good purpose to spend the
money on."
"A new frock?" inquired her uncle.
Hazel opened her eyes at this frivolous sally; her simple ideas upon
dress began and ended with a few yards of inexpensive material, made up
by the provident Mrs. Doidge--Hazel herself assisting with the long
seams.
"Oh no," she explained, "I was expecting _five pounds_ or so. If you
like, you shall read it some day--coming fresh to it, you might be able
to pick out faults that have escaped mine and Teddie's notice. But I
very much fear," she added dejectedly, "that it is all faults from
beginning to end, in which case, of course, it would not patch up."
"I daresay your talents lie in other directions," her uncle said, quite
sympathetically for him. "You play and sing, don't you?"
"Yes," Hazel admitted.
"Thank Heaven you don't give the young ladies' invariable answer 'A
little,'" Mr. Desborough exclaimed in approval. "The girl who plays and
sings 'a little' is generally merciless in the number and length of her
attempts, and in the frequency with which she renders them. Go to the
piano now and let me hear what you can do."
Somewhat reluctantly, Hazel rose to do his bidding. Like all sensitive
temperaments, the girl was influenced in a great degree by her
surroundings and by the atmospheric conditions of the moment. Just now
she felt utterly disinclined for this sudden and most unexpected
performance of any musical ability she might possess, with her Uncle
Desborough as auditor. The music-stool became a dock, and the little
prisoner was put upon her trial before a severe and critical judge.
She seated herself and played, badly enough, a bright piece of Chopin--a
sorry choice for nervous fingers and distracted mind. But under all his
brusque, nay, hard, exterior there lay somewhere deep down in his breast
a very human and sympathetic heart, a fact too often overlooked or
forgotten by his friends, and consequently--there being no one to remind
him of it--forgotten by himself. Hazel's friendly, gentle ways, and
sweet spontaneity had gone straight to the centre of that
long-slumbering organ, causing it to stir in new and warm pulsations, to
his own no small amazement. He was better aware than the girl herself of
the height and depth to which such delicate sensibilities as constituted
her mental and spiritual composition, could rise and fall; and knew well
enough that the present moment was inauspicious for showing her talent
in its true dimensions.
"That is a beautiful thing," was all he said. "Play me something more."
At that there whelmed over Hazel a sense of shame. How unkind and unfair
to make any one listen to such poorly executed music--most of all her
uncle, who, she now gathered for the first time, was an artist, an
expert--for she had instantly detected the sympathy in his tone--to
whom, therefore, her best was due. How unkind to let her nervous
self-consciousness entirely spoil that which, to such an one, might
prove a pleasure, if she but did her best--a pleasure that she feared
the old man all too seldom enjoyed in his lonely life. She played
again, Grieg this time, with her whole heart in the rendering; then,
with a quick change of mood and key, she began to sing a sweet,
plaintive ditty, her fervent little soul in her voice, tender,
exquisite; then another and yet another.
Tired at last, she rose from the piano.
"Good gracious, child," Uncle Desborough exclaimed, amazed. "Where did
you learn to sing like that?"
"Mother used to teach me," Hazel responded simply; "but I don't have any
lessons now."
*CHAPTER XV*
Lunch was announced, and the presence of servants did not permit of
intimate talk; but, once again settled in the library, Hazel opened
fire, very gently, it must be confessed.
"Uncle Percival," she began, "do you remember giving me a ten-pound note
last time I was here?"
"I am not likely to forget that incident," her uncle replied drily, "and
how royally you flung legacies at my servant, after bestowing the note
upon him--for present expenses, it is to be presumed. Well?"
"Well," Hazel said gravely, "on that occasion you made it impossible for
me to accept it for myself; but since then you have been so kind, so--so
courteous that--Uncle Percival, will you give me five pounds?"
"What for?" Mr. Desborough asked bluntly, but with interest.
"Well," Hazel replied. "I should have liked to keep that a secret if I
could; but it is quite impossible, because as soon as I have got it, I
must go out, and you will want to know where I am going."
"Certainly," her uncle assented, "and you must have the carriage." He
was looking amused now. "Shopping, I suppose?"
"No," Hazel said; "I want to leave it at Teddie's lodging."
"Whew," whistled Uncle Percival. "Sits the wind in that quarter? Is
the boy out of pocket-money?"
"It is much more serious than that," Hazel told him gravely. "He has no
money to pay his rent with, and the landlady is beginning to--to kick,
he says."
Mr. Desborough raised his hand and coughed, to hide a smile. "How has
he got himself into this mess?" he asked. "I thought he had a rise
lately."
"He was given a rise," Hazel admitted, "but he says that from that time
his difficulties began. You see," she went on confidentially, "he
treated five friends to a champagne lunch, and a theatre or two--I
suspect stalls; I did not want to worry him by asking; but Teddie is so
generous."
"The young jackanapes," ejaculated Mr. Desborough.
"I must be very, very careful to keep from him that the money comes from
_you_," Hazel said, with charming frankness. "If he knew, or even
suspected, I should not be able to get him to accept it."
"Upon my----," Uncle Percival began, but checked himself. "Well," he
continued, with pseudo-humility, that sat oddly upon him, "let him think
it comes from you, as indeed it does."
"But where should I have got it?" she asked, with dramatic gesture.
"However," she added, "let him puzzle, the truth will probably only
strike him after he has paid his debts--and then, though he may scold me
a little, it will be too late for him to refuse it."
"Well," Mr. Desborough said, "ring, and we will order the carriage and
leave the money at the domicile of this grateful young man. He seems to
be of a very independent character."
"For anything I know, he will save up and pay you back," Hazel announced
cheerfully; "but that can't be helped, can it? We cannot allow him to
be turned into the streets. Did you say _we_ would go?"
"If you don't object to an old man's company," he returned.
"How nice," Hazel exclaimed, in genuine pleasure; "and it will do you
good, Uncle Percival."
"Humph," was his gruff response, more for the sake of rendering less
astonishing the unusual order to the servant, who now appeared--to seem
at least in some way his ordinary self--than that he felt any
displeasure in the enterprise. Hazel's undisguised delight in the
prospect of a drive in his, a cross-grained old man's company, warmed
his heart, till he felt almost ashamed of a childlike eagerness to "be
off."
With very slight assistance from Thomas, Mr. Desborough reached the
carriage step, where he turned, and with courtly politeness helped the
lady to be seated. Hazel named the address in Baker Street, and away
they drove.
"How well a top hat suits you," Hazel said, eyeing her august relative
in frank admiration. "You look like an old Duke."
"Pshaw," he returned, much pleased, and furtively twisting his
moustache, "the fitter company then for a little princess like
yourself," he added, with old-fashioned gallantry.
Hazel glanced in naive amazement at her simple cotton gown. "A
princess," she said amusedly, "dressed in stuff that cost
sixpence-three-farthings a yard."
"No one would notice your dress with----" he ended abruptly and changed
the subject. "With that face," he had been on the point of adding, but
he disapproved of such outspoken compliments, and was afraid of making
the girl vain. One of the chief charms of Hazel's unusual beauty was
her complete unconsciousness of it--a charm that Percival Desborough
fully appreciated.
Arrived at the lodging-house, Hazel made her way in alone. "I shall not
keep you long," she told her companion, "but I have made up my mind to
speak to the landlady privately."
"I am Miss Le Mesurier," she announced to Mrs. Walters, who herself
opened to Hazel.
"The young gentlemen's sister, Miss, I presume?" the woman inquired
respectfully. Indeed the sight of the liveried servants and handsome
bays quite awed her, and set her wishing that she had sent Caroline,
despite her dirty working apron, to open the door, instead of doing that
service herself.
"Yes, and I should like to see their rooms, if you please," Hazel
returned, "and I have a letter that I wish to leave on Mr. Edward's
table."
"Certainly Miss, certainly," the landlady replied soothingly, manifestly
anxious to assure the visitor that nothing could be more reasonable.
She led the way upstairs. "This is the sitting-room, Miss," Mrs.
Walters informed her, throwing open the first door on a landing above,
"and that is Mr. Gerald's room opening out of it--Mr. Edward sleeps
upstairs, as did Mr. Hugh before he left."
The girl looked about her with much interest. It was a poor little room
enough, but clean and sunny. Oilcloth covered the floor, with an
occasional cheap rug stranded here and there. White lace curtains
draped the little bow window, and a struggling geranium wrestled with
existence in too small a pot, with pale, caked earth, on a little
flower-stand with a green woolly mat. The inevitable horsehair sofa and
chairs predominated, covered with the equally inevitable white cotton
crochet antimacassars, and a hideously designed clock ticked harshly on
the little shiny black mantelpiece, behind which a wonderfully dim and
speckled mirror had its place. Upon the walls hung photographs of Mrs.
Walters at all ages, sometimes alone, sometimes one of a self-conscious
group, attired in ugly large-hipped costumes.
"I don't put many ornaments on the mantelpiece, Miss," the landlady
explained. "The young gentlemen likes to sit in them easy chairs, and
to put their feet on it." She pointed out two chairs that looked to
Hazel something misnamed, seeing that they were shiny and slippery and
studded here and there with bristles, with a large lumpy dent in the
centre of each.
A small sideboard, rather overloaded with wax fruit under glass cases,
stood against the wall opposite the fireplace--Hazel suspected that some
of these "ornaments" had given way to the feet, now absent--and a round
table occupied the middle of the room.
"I suppose they have meals here?" Hazel asked, regarding it critically.
"Breakfast and dinner, Miss; late dinner, if you please. They get their
lunches out."
"Yes, I know," Hazel told her; "but I mean, do they dine at _this_
table?"
The piece of furniture in question, though standing straight, somehow
gave one the impression of ricketiness, and the girl's warm heart was
yearning over the comfort of her brothers.
"Oh yes, Miss; and there is room and to spare on it, now that Mr. Hugh
is gone--_he_ would always have the plant-stand drawn up for the
potatoes or the second vegetable."
"I cannot stay long," Hazel announced; "I must not keep my uncle
waiting, but I wanted to ask you a thing or two: I know you won't mind.
Are their appetites good?"
Mrs. Walters raised her hands and eyes to the ceiling, smoke-begrimed
above the gas bracket. "I have never known their like for eating," she
declared solemnly. "I have a small appetite myself," she went on
conversationally, bringing her eyes to the level of Hazel's face, and
her hands to her sides, "a little I must have, but not enough to choke
the system."
Hazel looked aghast. "But do my brothers choke their systems?" she
asked, somewhat startled.
"No, Miss," the woman returned, hastening to reassure her visitor. "Oh
no, but sometimes I can't but think it would not take much more. But
there," she added, "it may be that I take so little myself."
"Yet you are not thin," the girl observed with kindly interest.
This was delicately put, for in truth Mrs. Walters was very distinctly
stout.
The landlady shook her head. "It is not fat," she announced solemnly,
pinching her own plump arm.
"No?" questioned Hazel gently, surprised.
"No," Mrs. Walters averred, with grave insistency, "it is not fat. I am
blown out, you know, Miss. Puffy, as you might say."
Hazel crossed the room, and entered the tiny bedchamber beyond. So this
was where he slept! Dear, old, plodding Gerald, how she hoped he was
comfortable. She made bold to sit on the bed to test its springs. There
was not much response to her vigorous bouncing. Everything was clean
and tidy, but there was certainly no superfluity of luxury. The sight
of the water-bottle put Hazel in mind of the distressed geranium. She
took it up and made her way to the outer room again.
"You do not mind?" she asked brightly of the landlady. "I am so fond of
tending plants."
Mrs. Walters replied graciously enough, but commented upon the amazing
amount of water the plant "took." This expression of opinion went far
to reassure Hazel on the subject of the boys' systems; food and drink
were evidently subjects on which Mrs. Walters was wont to exaggerate.
Teddie's bedchamber was the counterpart of Gerald's, and Hazel had soon
made her inspection of it. There was but one striking
characteristic--not unusual to top bedrooms--to mark it from the other:
whereas in the lower room all was concise, in pairs and sets, upstairs
the ewer did not match with the basin, whilst an enormous tumbler
overshadowed a diminutive water-bottle. The mirror was cracked across,
making one's features appear horribly defective and out of drawing, and
the few cheap ornaments were for the most part oddments--a detail which
the girl's quick eye noted as a slight improvement upon the austere,
unbending stiffness of the severe pairs, ranged upon mantelshelf and
toilet-table in Gerald's sanctum.
The loving sister smoothed and patted the little white pillow--Mrs.
Walters had remained without upon the landing--and, from her position at
the head of the bed, took note of the exact view of the room that must
needs meet her brother's waking eyes in the morning light. It was not
particularly cheerful: a rickety chest of drawers, lacking two knobs;
and above it, hung all askew, a large card bearing the words, "Lord,
remember me, a sinner," was within his direct range of vision. The text
was printed in silver letters, surrounded by a maze of pink roses,
whilst from behind a large cluster of the same blossoms, upon the left
of the card, there arose, with amazing abruptness and lack of warning,
an emaciated church spire. Hazel could only hope that Teddie was not
prone to lie long and reflect; or if he was, that, for his own peace of
mind, he kept a clear conscience.
She left her bank-note in its envelope, together with a scribbled
explanation, in a conspicuous place on the little dressing-table. It
was conceivable that he would prefer that Gerald should know nothing of
it, so that she would not leave it in the sitting-room. She made her
way downstairs, followed by Mrs. Walters. At the house-door she turned
to say good-bye.
"I hope I have not troubled you," she said. "It is good of you to let
me see the rooms: one is so interested, you know."
"Quite so, Miss," the landlady answered, "and I hope you are pleased,
Miss."
"I think they look fairly comfortable," Hazel returned, somewhat
cautiously, "and beautifully clean. I know," she added, anxious to be
just, "I know that you do not ask a very heavy rent, so the boys must
not expect anything grand."
Again bidding her good-bye, Hazel tripped down the steps, and seated
herself in the carriage, which at that moment had pulled up, after a
turn or two up and down the road.
"Well," her uncle said, "I am afraid, if you are to catch the train your
mother mentioned, it is about time to be making our way to the station.
Do you wish to return first, to fetch your papers and what not?"
"Oh, mother's grapes," exclaimed Hazel. "Yes, please, if there is
time."
The order home was given, and soon, armed with the same provision for
her entertainment upon the return journey, Hazel, still accompanied by
her uncle, was driven to the station.
"Come and see me again soon, my dear," the old man said. "And you are
quite sure," he added, lowering his voice, that the attendant footman
might not overhear his words, "you are quite sure that you won't accept
pocket-money for yourself?" for he had been pressing notes upon the girl
for her own use.
"Quite sure, thank you, uncle dear. You must not mind. You see, I
don't actually _need_ it--Teddie did," and she kissed the wrinkled cheek
that was presented to her with real warmth. "Good-bye."
And once again the old man was left alone.
It was in the loneliness of the hours that followed that Percival
Desborough made up his mind to go to Hazelhurst.
Alighting from the train, Hazel's eyes encountered Paul Charteris. She
looked up and smiled in frank affection, at once setting his anxiety at
rest respecting his reception: for he had not asked permission to take
the little lady home. Intimating by word and gesture that the guard was
welcome to the very considerable amount of literature within the
carriage, Hazel followed her charioteer out of the station, and was soon
once more seated beside him in the trap. But alas for his new-found
peace and elation of spirit, the girl's manner quickly returned to the
determined evasion of eye, of question, of himself generally; and again
Paul was profoundly troubled. Almost in silence they reached home.
Things had continued in this wise for many long days, when the young
man, coming to call at Hazelhurst, chanced upon Hazel in the
flower-garden. She made as if to flee, but the next moment,
recollecting herself, she stood her ground, and awaited his approach.
"It is my birthday to-day," Paul announced, as they shook hands,
feigning not to heed her timorous demeanour.
"Is it really?" she exclaimed, much interested. Hazel was young--a
birthday was still a great event to her. "I wish you many happy returns
of the day. Mother is in the house; shall we go to her?"