tangible token of your well-wishing?" he asked wistfully.
Hazel looked her amazement. "How can I?" she questioned. "I did not
know in time." How very odd and--and bold of Paul to ask for a birthday
present! One did not ask one's nearest relatives!
"It would not take you long to gather me a flower," he answered,
unashamed, although he read something of her thoughts. "I should prize
that immensely."
Hazel turned at the suggestion, in a little flutter of eagerness, to
select a rosebud, or whatever chanced to look most fitting, wherewith to
honour the occasion; and after some diligent search was about to pluck,
when of a sudden something stayed her hand. In an instant the sweet,
unconscious child was gone, and a dignified maiden stood in her stead.
"You may take anything you fancy," she said. "Miles won't mind."
The young man stood appalled. "You--you won't give me one?" he
expostulated.
"You can't want it very much if you find it too much trouble to take one
for yourself," she answered evasively.
"Hazel," he said, much aggrieved, "you have given me flowers before.
Don't you remember the little bunch of Shepherd's Eye?"
Yes, Hazel remembered--she was minded how glad she had been that he
thought them so pretty, and had asked for them so eagerly. He was just
as eager now--he was fond of flowers. How was it that somehow she could
not bring herself to give him one? It was so little to ask of her!
What had happened--what had come between her and this dear friend? What
was it? It had been much happier then. Surely he was the same? Yet
something was not the same, somehow things were different. She looked
up: there was troubled questioning in the wistful brown eyes. Was she
relenting?
"You will give me a flower?" he asked eagerly, drawing a step nearer.
His ardour frightened her. Had he spoken lightly and affected
carelessness--had he managed to hide, or disguise, much of the fervour
that marked his simple request, she would perhaps, though troubled and
perplexed at her own reluctance, have complied with it. She drew back
as he advanced and put her hands behind her, looking half timid, half
defiant.
"No," she answered determinedly.
Paul stood regarding her thoughtfully. "Why not?" he asked at length,
bluntly.
"I--I don't know," Hazel murmured, truthfully enough. "Won't you please
come to the house?"
For a moment they stood thus, regarding one another in silence: the
brown eyes still in wistful questioning, the manly blue-grey ones
half-angry, half-sad, wholly puzzled.
"I think not to-day," he said at last. Raising his cap, he turned upon
his heel, and, retracing his steps, was soon lost in the shadow of the
wood.
*CHAPTER XVI*
Two days later, at the same hour, Paul Charteris was seated in Helen's
drawing-room.
"She is so young," Helen was pleading; "such a child."
Paul sat in silence, big, manly, and troubled withal.
"I feel such an unutterable brute to speak to you about it," he returned
at length. "If you knew how I have struggled to keep it to myself; but
it is too much, it goes beyond my strength."
He groaned, turning his eyes from the delicate face, in remorse at the
conflicting emotions he had raised.
If only Hubert Le Mesurier were alive! There would be nothing about
which to hesitate; they would talk as man to man. But the widowed
Helen, so gentle, so defenceless, seeking only what was best for her
child. What a brute he was! And yet, speak he must: he could no longer
contain himself. He knew well enough that the next time he encountered
Hazel alone he must demand an explanation of her strange manner towards
himself. He felt it was highly improbable he could see Hazel without
opening his heart to her. It was but right to warn Helen as to how
things stood with him: it had become essential that Helen should be told
all there was to tell.
"Paul," she said at last, very gently, "you must go away for a time."
Paul's face grew pale. He regarded her in mute consternation.
"It is for her good," she went on. "Does not that reflection make you
willing to go--to bear a few months' banishment?"
Poor Paul, his elbow on his knee, his head in his hand, could only groan
aloud.
"Do you mean I am to go, uncertain of my fate, before I speak to her?"
he asked; and the pain in his eyes made Helen waver.
"Would it not be harder afterwards?" she asked, seeking to argue with
him. "Suppose--mind, I do not know my child's heart towards you, though
of this I am sure, that she is fond of you in her innocent, frank
way--but suppose she--she gives you permission to stay--how can you go
then, Paul?"
"I could go then," he cried vehemently, "far more easily than now, when
all is uncertainty and torture. It would be hard; but I could go if need
be," he added wistfully, "if you demand such trial of me."
"It is not to try you," she made answer. "It is for Hazel's good, that
she may remain settled and undisturbed, that she may have time for
reflection and to learn her own mind." She paused. Hazel's voice was
heard trilling a light air as she passed through the hall.
"You mean that I may speak?" the young man asked, springing to his feet,
an eager flush rising to his face. "She will never learn her own mind
toward me if I do not speak--she will never think of me in that way. I
should only return to find things as they are. You will let me speak?"
The two regarded one another for some moments--the two beings who, of
all the world, loved Hazel best. She, with that wonderful mother-love
that denies self, that sacrifices all to the good and the happiness of
the child, that asks no return; he, with the strong man's heart-whole
devotion, yearning, protecting, longing to have and to hold and to
cherish, through all changes, but fiercely demanding love's tribute of
love.
Helen sighed softly, and smiled.
"Go, then," she said. "I expect you will find her in the wood. And,
Paul, if she does not know herself--if she cannot answer you now as you
would wish, do not despair. Be hopeful, and leave things to time to put
right."
In two strides the young man was beside her. Raising her hand to his
lips, he reverently kissed the slender fingers, and without a word
turned and left her.
As he walked through the wood, Paul Charteris soon descried the girl's
form, flitting now here now there, now eluding his sight like some
will-o'-the-wisp, strayed far from home during the night, and thus
overtaken by day--a will-o'-the-wisp made visible to the eye now that
its light was extinguished, or, rather, absorbed by the sunshine. Of a
sudden he came upon her. She was standing in the middle of the clear
space that commended itself to the purpose in hand: she was feeding her
pets, dispensing crumbs of bread and cake around her. A ringdove cooed
upon her shoulder, whilst a pair of squirrels frisked about her feet.
"What a little witch she is!" Paul mused as he watched, himself unseen.
He tried to call "Hazel," but throat and tongue refused their office.
Instead, he advanced and discovered himself.
Hazel nodded to him brightly.
"Did you come to see them fed?" she asked. "Are they not fascinating?"
"I came to see you," he made answer. "Hazel, I have something very
special to say. Will you listen?"
Hazel looked about her, the brightness dying from her face. There was
no escaping him now. The most direct path to the house he himself
blocked. If she turned down a by-way he would but follow.
"Will you listen, Hazel?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said, reluctant, half defiant. "Tell me now, whilst I feed
the birds," she added imperiously.
"No," Paul rejoined stoutly, "it is much too important and--and serious.
I will wait till you have finished."
Although the girl had practically completed her task when he came upon
her, the last few crumbs were scattered, one by one, from the small yet
seemingly inexhaustible stock still left. And then, when he thought the
time had come, when all seemed ready, Hazel sought to fix his attention
upon a hundred-and-one different objects--this plant, that tree, the
brightness of a pet squirrel's eyes, the bushiness of another's tail,
the soft grey plumage of the wood pigeon. Would Paul like one on his
shoulder? She believed she could coax it there. Paul was soon nearly
frantic, fearful of offending or scaring her, divided between risking
the one or the other, torn with indecision, yet determined throughout
not to let so fitting an opportunity slip by ungrasped. Hazel had no
faintest clue as to how he was minded: she only knew that he was grave
again, and, though she had not so much as given one glance at his face,
she knew his eyes to be serious and deep and unfathomable. In a word,
he was in that tiresome mood that somehow troubled her. She must divert
his attention from herself, she must distract his mind with all manner
of interests; and these the wood amply afforded.
"Look at that green caterpillar," she exclaimed. "We might----"
"Hazel," Paul said desperately, interrupting her, "will you listen? It
is so important--to me."
"You said 'serious' before," Hazel rejoined, a trifle flippantly. Her
back was turned upon him. She began busily to collect fir-cones.
"I want to tell you that I love you," the young man said at last, simply
and quietly. "I love you, Hazel."
"Thank you," Hazel said in polite good faith, half turning a flushed
cheek toward him. "It is--it is very good of you. But if you don't
mind, try not to feel serious about it. Of course I like to hear you
say it--just once; but I knew it, I--I mean I always felt you were fond
of me."
"Child, child," Paul murmured. Then aloud: "Are you fond of me?"
"Oh yes," she answered frankly. "You know I am. But it is not a very
usual thing to ask a lady," she added reprovingly. "Teddie says you
have to guess at a lady's feelings. By the way, have you had tea?"
Despite his emotion, a smile of genuine amusement, mingled with
exquisite tenderness, played about Paul's mouth as his eyes dwelt upon
the little kneeling figure, so determinedly turned from him. He must
try again. He did not want to startle her, he must endeavour to make his
meaning dawn slowly upon her mind; and when he had achieved this, what,
ah what would her answer be! Had the girl's feelings toward him only to
be awakened? Was love dormant? Or--unspeakable anguish was in the
thought--was there no love within her breast for him? He must know--he
must know: the pain of uncertainty was becoming more than he could bear.
He recalled Helen's words and found comfort in them. "If she does not
know herself, if she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not
despair, be hopeful, and leave things to time to put right."
"Hazel," he said gently, "I am so anxious. I should be so grateful to
you if you would stand up and--and give me your undivided attention,
just for two minutes."
The girl complied, reluctant, wondering, half uneasy at the appeal in
his voice, half curious. She stood before him with folded hands and
waited.
Paul came a step nearer. "Hazel, it _is_ a usual question to ask, when
a man loves a girl as I love you, with all his heart, with all his soul;
when he feels he must have her love, or live without it in misery all
his days. Then he _must_ ask her if she could ever love him."
For the first time Hazel looked up in his face, her own paling.
"Is this--is this a _proposal_?" she asked, awe and solemnity widening
and darkening her eyes. "Do you mean--you want me to--to actually
_marry_ you?"
Paul's lips twitched at the corners. "Yes," he said stoutly. "Tell
me--tell me that you will."
There was a pause, passed in agony by Paul, in amazed reflection by
Hazel.
"Child, answer me," he said at length hoarsely, possessing himself of
her hands.
"I might, after years and years," she said consideringly. "But, Mr.
Charteris, I never dreamed you were a--that you felt like that. You are
not at all a usual sort." Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his
looks, his sighs, his serenades. How troublesome he was to manage; how
he would always try to get her to himself, when she was longing for the
society of others; how he would hold her hand too long at every possible
opportunity. That was the lover one read of in stories, one saw
depicted in pictures. But--but she began to acknowledge to herself that
it was possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his face,
his eyes all strenuous, all--all. And he had this in common with the
lover of her ideas: he held her hands--both! as if he would never let
them go.
Hazel tried to free her hands.
"Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you love me."
Silence fell between them.
"If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her words, "does it mean I
must--does it mean I have got to marry you?"
"It would mean that some day you might love me enough to like to marry
me," Paul answered boldly and simply. "But never mind that now, Hazel.
Just tell me whether you love me, even--even a little, and I will wait
so patiently for that little to grow."
Again she fell to reflecting. "I am fond of you," she said earnestly,
"and, yes, perhaps you could call it--call it--just a very little, you
know. But I don't know why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and
now will you please let go my hands?"
"Then you care for me--a little?" the young man asked joyfully.
"Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then, timidly, half in
exultation, half in fear, "Am I an engaged woman now?" she asked.
"If you will accept me as your lover, yes," Paul answered. He was all
aglow with happiness. It is true that she was timid, shrinking, only
now half conscious of what he meant, of what he offered. Yet through it
all, nay, because of that very timidity, he felt that she cared for
him--a little, and a great yearning filled his soul to make that little
much. As yet he must be content that she had not repelled him; for,
child as she was, Paul felt assured that the sweet, strong woman-being
within her would have rejected his love with none of the uncertainty
with which she had half accepted it; would have rejected it finally and
with decision--for the time being, at all events. How utterly adorable
she was, this queen among girls, this innocent, but half awake, maiden!
How could he ever deserve her--how make himself worthy? What an
inestimable privilege was his: to teach her love. An intense, an
infinite tenderness was astir in the young fellow's strong, manly
nature. Ah, how patient, how gentle he must be! Nor could he ever be
patient and gentle enough. He would bear that in mind, always.
"Hazel, my little love," he murmured. "Look in my eyes and tell me once
more that you love me--a little. Say: 'Paul, I love you, and presently I
shall love you more.'"
Hazel raised her eyes obediently, but only to his collar stud. "I--I
love you a little," she stammered.
"You won't look at me?" he pleaded.
"I _am_ looking, hard," she averred, blinking at his chin.
"And you won't say, 'Paul'?"
"It would be too silly," she objected, "when you are here, attending to
me."
He longed to seal the compact between them with a kiss, a solemn, sacred
kiss; but he felt the time was not yet. She had given him so much!
Just now he must not ask for more. He must respect her sweet delicacy;
he must not dismay or trouble her. He would be patient, gentle, all
unselfish. In this wise he might grow to be worthy of her love, and,
worthy, might gain it.
*CHAPTER XVII*
To return to the day of Hazel's visit to her brother's lodgings,
Teddie's incredulous delight, when he came home to the rooms in Baker
Street, and had toiled up to the little top chamber, somewhat
dispirited, to find the bank-note upon his dressing-table, may be
imagined. He eagerly seized upon and read the few lines that Hazel had
written in explanation. They did not tell him much; only that he might
spend the money with an easy mind; asking him to try to keep free from
debt in the future, as next time she would find it far more difficult to
help him.
Although Teddie knew of his sister's visit to their great-uncle, the
thought never entered his head that he could possibly owe this very
opportune aid to that circumstance. After much silent puzzling--for he
was not going to confide in Gerald on the subject--he came to the
conclusion that Hazel had, probably through the medium of Miles, sold
her gold bangle, and so provided her distressed brother with pecuniary
assistance. Mentally dubbing her a little brick, Teddie proceeded to
make his toilet for the evening, with more zest than he had pursued any
other of the day's duties. He poured a plentiful supply of water into
the basin with the plain red band around its girth, from the ewer that
was besprinkled with blue flowers. Removing his coat and collar, and
thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he plunged his hot face
into its cool depths, whilst with wide-open eyes he glared glassily at
the bottom of the basin, some two inches from his nose, in seemingly
futile wrath; then rolled them from side to side in fierce, yet vacant,
contemplation of his environments, apparently much to his refreshment.
He emerged blowing like a grampus, and fell to rubbing his rosy
countenance vigorously with the somewhat harsh little towel of Mrs.
Walters's providing. He seemed to get an astonishing amount of
satisfaction from these drastic measures, only desisting when his arms
ached and his face was aglow with the friction. After belabouring his
curly head severely with surprisingly stiff hair-brushes, he prized open
the handleless little top drawer of the chest, which had been pushed
injudiciously far in the shutting, with his pocket-knife--a broken,
rusty, and blunt implement, long since dedicated to such uses--and
supplied himself with a fresh collar and a change of tie. He would have
liked to make a more complete toilet, for the Le Mesurier boys
religiously dressed for the evening; but dressing meant a fresh shirt,
and it frequently fell out that toward the end of the week clean shirts
were scarce. To-day was Friday; the linen would be home to-morrow, and
Teddie knew without looking that the first long drawer, boasting two
knobs and devoted to the warding of his underclothing, was devoid of
this particular article of wearing-apparel; for he had recklessly
indulged himself this week.
So, perforce content with his hardy ablutions and slight changes of
attire, he descended to the little sitting-room, to find Gerald already
ensconced in his easy-chair, his slippered feet duly in place against
the mantelshelf, luxuriously smoking an attenuated cigarette. He, too,
had regulated his toilet with skill and sagacity, in accordance with the
day of the week; but, more favoured than Teddie--for Gerald was never in
arrear with his half of the rent--he had used a pint milk-jug of hot
water sent up from the kitchen from the landlady, by Caroline the
hand-maid.
"By Jove, you look pink!" Gerald remarked lazily, as his brother seated
himself in the opposite chair and settled his feet in position. "Cold
water, I suppose?"
"I prefer it," Teddie answered, briefly but good-humouredly. "Whew, I
am peckish! I hope dinner will be punctual."
The cloth was already spread, and in a few minutes Caroline entered the
room with a loaded tray, somewhat short of breath.
Gerald carved the mutton, Teddie served the vegetables.
"Oh, if you please, sir," Caroline said before retiring, "missis says
will you please to knock on the floor with yer 'eel when ye're ready for
the sweet. It is my evening out, and missis says as 'ow I can get ready
now and she'll answer yer."
She addressed herself to Gerald, but looked the while deprecatingly at
Teddie, who, though perhaps the more severe of the two young gentlemen,
and more particular to have things to his liking, was her favourite,
even while she stood in greater awe of him.
"Very well," Gerald returned; "but why doesn't she--Mrs. Walters--ask us
to ring as usual?"
"She's a-sitting in the cool, sir--she's in the first-floor front
sitting-room." Caroline almost whispered this solemn circumstance; for
the first-floor front sitting-room was a marvel of shining lustres,
hunting scenes, and crimson and gold furniture. "She mightn't 'ear the
_bell_, but she's just under yer 'eel."
"All right," Gerald rejoined, and nodded dismissal. "We will make her
hear."
"Don't be late home, Caroline," Teddie put in, warningly. "Back by ten
sharp, mind."
"Yes, sir," Caroline answered docilely.
"And tell your young man from me that you are a good enough sort," he
continued; "and I would say more, but I don't want to make you vain."
He began to attack his dinner with youthful ardour and interest.
"Thank you, sir," the girl answered deferentially. She left the room,
quite overwhelmed with Mr. Edward's compliment, a broad smile of
pleasure pervading her countenance.
"You are very genial to-night," remarked Gerald presently.
The two had by this time made considerable inroad on their somewhat
astonishing platefuls, and were at leisure to take matters a little more
easily.
"Am I?" asked Teddie, gratified. "I feel genial." And he beamed about
the room.
Without further comment the two finished with the mutton, and began a
solemn tattoo upon the floor with their heels; becoming so interested in
the martial sounds produced with military precision and kettledrum-like
effect, that they only desisted on becoming aware that Mrs. Walters was
calling desperately from below, "I'm comin'."
The "sweet" of which Caroline had spoken proved to be baked sago. When
the landlady reappeared to remove this dish, Teddie, with well-assumed
carelessness, addressed her.
"By the way, Mrs. Walters," he said, "I believe I have an account to
settle with you." He drew from his pocket the five-pound note, and
handed it to the mollified woman. "Give me the change at your
convenience," he added; "don't trouble now."
Gerald, from his armchair, turned and regarded his brother in speechless
amazement. Recovering somewhat, he glanced with apprehensive interest
at Teddie's waistcoat pocket, trying to ascertain whether the huge
Waterbury watch--which, by the way, if sold, might bring the owner
half-a-crown--was still there. The silver chain was in its place, and
he fancied he heard the tick of that strong and renowned piece of
mechanism.
"Where the deuce----" he began, but Teddie frowned at him warningly.
"And I wanted to tell you that I wish to give a dinner to two or three
friends one day next week," he went on, quite informally. "I think it
would be more homelike to give it here, and less expensive. You could
get in some cooked things, so as not to have too much to do: a meat pie,
for instance. You could manage soup, fish, and a joint, could not you?
One entree would do, game or something. There only remain the sweets
and the savoury, cheese and dessert, and, of course, coffee."
"I should have to get in help," Mrs. Walters announced; "me and Caroline
could never manage alone."
"No?" Teddie asked. "Not a simple little dinner like that? However,
that is your look-out. Get all the help you want; and, by the way, have
you another table that we could shove up against this, and cover the two
with one cloth?"
When Mrs. Walters withdrew Teddie sat him down to write his invitations.
"It is only old Hugh," he told his brother, who was puffing at his pipe
in silence and in seeming insouciance, but was in truth very anxious to
know the meaning of Teddie's sudden affluence. "It has bothered me all
along that the old fellow left us without our giving any farewell
ceremony."
Gerald grunted. "Who is to meet him?" he asked.
"Well, I thought old Hamilton might like to come," Teddie answered. "He
has seen Hugh once or twice, and has taken a liking to him."
Gerald nodded. "Any one else?" he asked.
"What do you say to having Charteris? He does run up to town for a
dinner occasionally."
The notes of invitation were written and posted, and, before going down
to Hazelhurst next day, Teddie had another interview with Mrs. Walters.
"It is settled for Monday night," he told her. "I don't like to have
these things hanging on. As far as I know at present, there will be
three guests. You have got about two pounds in hand--refund yourself
from that if the stuff makes you out of pocket. Anything over and above
you can mention in the bill."