was his wrath. He partially forgave his repentant little sister on
hearing the history of her first visit to her uncle, and the fate of the
former note.
"And we are such good friends now," Hazel told him, "that, although I
could not possibly take anything for myself, I felt I could ask for you,
Teddie: I was so miserable about you."
Teddie was mollified, when he learned that his sister had informed her
uncle, that she should endeavour to keep secret how she came by the
money. But Monday afternoon found him seated in the library of the
house in Lancaster Gate, in conversation with that august relative.
Mr. Desborough's surprise was extreme when the curly-headed youth was
announced, and, truth to tell, he was very much interested and amused in
the subsequent conversation.
"I never expected to be sitting _here_," Teddie declared ingenuously.
"But as I believe there is some talk of your visiting us at Hazelhurst,
I don't mind meeting you half-way."
"Thank you," Mr. Desborough said drily.
"As to what has brought me here," Teddie went on, "you may perhaps
guess. I have only just learned from my sister, that she actually asked
you for money with which to help me in my--in my private affairs."
"What then?" Uncle Percival asked gruffly as Teddie paused.
"What then?" his nephew repeated hotly. "You don't suppose for a moment
that I can sit down in that knowledge without making a protest, do you?"
He regarded his uncle fiercely, and awaited an answer.
"I don't know, I am sure," Mr. Desborough replied at length. "I have
forgotten how I should have felt at your age. I think I should have
taken anything I could get."
"I don't believe you," Teddie rejoined warmly. "You may be a
cantankerous old man, but I wouldn't make myself out worse than I am if
I were you."
Mr. Desborough was about to expostulate angrily with Teddie on this
somewhat intemperate expression, but when he had recovered sufficient
breath for the purpose Teddie was, with bland indifference to his
feelings, pursuing the conversation.
"I shall, of course, pay it back with all the speed in my power," he
said. "Unfortunately it is already spent, or you should have the very
note back. But I won't leave this house more in your debt than I can
help." He rose, and, ransacking his pockets, produced four shillings
and fivepence halfpenny, which he proceeded to place beside his uncle.
Mr. Desborough had much ado not to break into a hearty laugh. He began
to think that the young fellow was as pleasing in his way as his little
favourite, Hazel.
"Look you here, my boy," he returned, bent upon pacifying his irate
nephew, "give an old man the pleasure of feeling he is of some use to
his young relatives."
"I can't do it," Teddie declared, with, however, a softened mien, for he
was touched by the unmistakable note of appeal in the old man's voice;
"but I am forced to accept what is already spent on the rent and on
to-night's dinner."
"Ah!" Mr. Desborough exclaimed. "To-night's dinner, eh? What are you
going to have?"
Teddie rehearsed the menu, then began to explain matters further, as he
became conscious of his uncle's extreme surprise.
"Oh, we don't fare like that every evening, simple though it is," he
said in self-justification. "This is an entertainment long owed to my
brother Hugh, and a couple of friends are asked to meet him."
Silence fell between them. Once the old man cleared his throat and was
about to speak, but checked himself. When he did speak, he had
evidently put something of moment aside.
"What shall you give them to drink?" he asked, in kindly interest.
"Whisky and soda or bottled beer," Teddie told him with prompt decision.
"I did hope to give them a glass of decent claret, but that is off, of
course."
Again a silence.
"Look you here, my boy." Uncle Desborough seemed bent upon having it
out. Fear of rebuff had caused him to hesitate, and a strange sense of
the unwonted good-fellowship of what he was about to propose made him
awkward. "What do you say to asking me to your dinner? Would not that
square matters?"
"We shall be delighted," Teddie made answer, very stiffly. "But, of
course, we cannot let one of our guests pay for his dinner."
"An old fellow like myself won't be in the way?" Mr. Desborough asked.
The half-wistful tone of the question, meant to be brusque, was not lost
upon his nephew.
"Not at all," he replied, more genially. "We shall be glad of your
company. A quarter to eight, then, to-night."
A few hours later Gerald and Teddie were receiving their four guests
with hearty welcome. The amazement of Gerald and Hugh when Mr.
Desborough was announced can hardly be conceived, for Teddie had
mischievously kept dark the circumstance of his coming. Their innate
good-breeding and natural courtesy prompted them quickly to overcome the
tendency to stand petrified with open mouths; for after only a momentary
pause they were shaking hands warmly, as if their uncle's condescension
were the most natural thing in the world.
"You are Paul Charteris, of whom my niece Hazel spoke?" Mr. Desborough
asked of the latest arrival.
Paul flushed at the sudden mention of that name.
"Yes," he returned, "I have the good fortune to be a near neighbour of
the Le Mesuriers."
It was marvellous to witness the little party being chivied about by the
bustling landlady and her handmaid, till at length, finding it
impossible to congregate about the hearth or by the window, the
expedience began to dawn upon the group of dispersing singly. Thus they
sat in formidable array round the walls of the room, whilst Hugh and Mr.
Desborough conversed amicably together, seated side by side upon the
horsehair sofa.
Presently Mrs. Walters, very red and important, beckoned Gerald out of
the room to discuss with him the subject of chairs; for, beside the two
miscalled easy-chairs, there were but two others in the boys'
sitting-room, and under no circumstances could the landlady of the Baker
Street rooms be induced to lend any of the gold and crimson furniture of
the "first-floor front." She always said it would be "robbing Peter to
pay Paul," but it was natural that her tenants should not see the
connection, or, seeing, bring themselves to regard the matter in that
light. This evening she was willing to make a great concession. Mr.
Gerald might have the music-stool from the "first-floor front." It was
against her rules, as he knew, but the company must be seated somehow,
and the music-stool did not belong to a suite, so that it could be
replaced readily, should any mischance overtake it.
The boys were, of course, at liberty to use their bedroom chairs as they
pleased; so that when the guests were finally seated, Mr. Desborough and
Mr. Hamilton occupied the two chairs of the sitting-room; Paul Charteris
was accommodated with the cane chair from Gerald's bedroom, its somewhat
low stature being at once remedied and rendered easy by a pillow; Hugh
was perched upon the music-stool, whilst Gerald and Teddie affably
dispensed hospitality, seated side by side on the sofa, which had been
drawn up for that occasion.
"I am awfully sorry," Gerald said, "there is nothing much to offer in
the way of drink." He glanced apologetically at the little sideboard,
where bottled beer, whisky, and syphons of soda-water were arranged.
Uncle Percival cleared his throat.
"I--er--took the liberty," he said--and he glanced deprecatingly at
Teddie--"I took the liberty--I hope an old uncle may be excused--of
bringing some wine with me. My servant is still below, if you like him
to bring up some sherry for the soup."
"Uncle Percival, you are a brick!" Hugh exclaimed, whilst Teddie gave
his august relative an approving nod.
Thomas answered the bell, with decanter and glasses. A well-trained
servant was he; for nothing could exceed his grave and deferential
respect as his eyes lighted upon his master, seated upon the left
hand--for Hugh was the guest of the evening--of the two flushed and
eager young hosts upon the sofa. Yet the scene must of a surety have
put a severe strain upon the risible muscles of any human being,
necessitating a strong curb upon his sense of humour. Burgundy was
handed round with the joint, and presently a suggestive "pop" from the
region of the sideboard brought Mr. Desborough's eyes to meet Teddie's
guiltily.
"Uncle, you are a trump," declared Teddie, slapping his uncle upon the
shoulder.
Gerald rose and, leaning over Teddie, solemnly and in silence gripped
his uncle's hand.
"I thought it might help with the evening's joviality," murmured the
recipient of these attentions. "My dear fellows, what an excellent
dinner you have provided--my compliments to your cook."
Which was tactful of Uncle Desborough.
Presently Paul Charteris rose and asked whether he had permission to
propose a toast to the guest of the evening. Hugh modestly cast down
his eyes as the company responded to the call with enthusiasm; Teddie
meekly petitioning Providence that his shadow might never grow less.
Hugh rose to return thanks. He made a short speech, to the effect that,
though happy in the capacity of Charteris's private secretary, he could
never cease to regret that he had broken up the happy trefoil. He was
half sorry that his brothers had not asked _his_ whilom boss to this
festive gathering, but that, perhaps after all, they had done rightly:
Mr. Hooper might not have cared to come. He and Hugh had never had the
luck to hit it off together as his brother Edward and _his_ superior,
Mr. Hamilton, had always done. Mr. Hooper was one of those men who did
not appreciate the earnest endeavours and well-spent energy of the best
years--or rather of a best year--at all events nine or ten months of a
fellow's life. He had never liked or encouraged his, Hugh's, taste for
drawing. He concluded by expressing his pleasure at finding himself in
such thoroughly genial and sympathetic company, and he heartily returned
his brother Edward's wish concerning his shadow--might all their shadows
expand, if there must be any change in them. He begged to propose the
health of their uncle, Percival Desborough.
Mr. Desborough acknowledged the courtesy and begged to be excused from
either rising or speaking. His gout troubled him somewhat, and he had no
gift for putting choice words together. He could but say he was
sincerely glad to be among them all that night.
Upon this Teddie rose and asked the company to drink to his superior,
Mr. Hamilton, to whom he had, he feared, in times gone by, been somewhat
of a trial in his wild days. That, however, was all over. He had grown
steady and was better understood than of yore. Nothing could exceed the
happiness of the relations now existing between them.
Mr. Hamilton rose, was about to speak, but instead he broke into a
hearty laugh and slapped the steady young man on the back. He declared
that he would not say more than that he heartily concurred with all that
his young host had deposed, and that he sincerely reciprocated his young
host's feeling towards himself.
Gerald rose and said that since no one seemed inclined to name him, he
thought he would waive ceremony and drink to himself if they would all
join him, which they did amidst shouts of laughter. Gerald proceeded to
remark that if he might be permitted he toasted his fellow-host Edward,
more generally known as Teddie, who had taken upon himself almost the
entire trouble and responsibility of the little dinner they were now
enjoying. The company responded with cheers, waxing so warm that at
length Teddie felt it incumbent on him to rise modestly and bow, which
he did, somewhat bashfully.
He was about to reseat himself when Gerald gave him a sharp dig in the
ribs and murmured a word, lost to the company amid the general turmoil.
Teddie nodded comprehendingly and, placing his hand on Gerald's
shoulder, together they stood and awaited silence.
"Gentlemen, you may smoke," issued from their lips, as through one
mouthpiece, so soon as quiet was attained; and the two proffered their
dilapidated cases, containing the excessively lean cigarettes they were
in the habit of smoking.
The glances of the two elderly men present had met more than once during
this unique entertainment--they met again now, and each drew from his
pocket a well-stocked cigar case, and offered in return their contents,
the while, in perfect gravity, they courteously accepted of their hosts'
store.
Paul also came to the fore well provided with cigars, at the sight of
which the boys' eyes glistened.
"Smoke your own stuff, any one who would rather," Teddie said
graciously. "Thanks, yes," he added, "I'll have a cigar."
So that, while the hosts and their brother Hugh puffed contentedly at
the fragrant and ever-coveted weed, Mr. Desborough, Mr. Hamilton, and
Paul Charteris feigned to enjoy the worst cigarettes it had ever been
their fate to taste, praising them most unduly in that they did not
"bite," and were a pleasant, light change for an after-dinner smoke.
"Quite so," Teddie agreed: "those who like a light smoke will--er--will
find them light. For myself I confess I prefer a cigar. But then, you
know," he added ingenuously, "cigars are rather beyond my means just
now, and are consequently a treat."
"I am glad you are thinking of running down to Hazelhurst for a visit,"
Gerald said conversationally, addressing his uncle. "Run down with me
and Teddie on Saturday."
Percival Desborough was suffering from remorse. What an old fool he had
been! What an unconscionable old fool! All these years, these bitter,
lonely years of mental and bodily pain, years that were a nightmare to
look back upon, were of his own contriving. These three handsome young
fellows, of whom any relative might be proud--what an interest they
would have brought into his life, and to what better purpose could he
have put his money than to educate them and start them fair, upon a
better footing in the world, than could be attained by their own and his
poor niece Helen's unaided efforts? There were two more, he remembered,
conceivably as artless and ingenuous as the four of Hubert Le Mesurier's
children with whom he was already acquainted. What a fool, what a fool!
He saw it now, and all for what? Fancied slights, imaginary affronts,
from this or that member of the Westmacott family; probably the outcome
of a distorted mind, fed upon morbid fancies, rendered irritable by
bodily pain. Real or fancied, they no way included his niece Helen; but
in shutting himself away from the world, his injustice had embraced all
within its narrow, bigoted bonds; contention and discord had rankled in
his poor, warped mind, and burned fiercely, with little or nothing to
feed the fire but his own imaginings.
As, in the long hours of the evening spent alone after Hazel's visit,
when the determination came upon him to accept the invitation to go to
Hazelhurst, so, in the lonely night hours that followed the
entertainment provided by the Le Mesurier boys, did Percival Desborough
make up his mind to agree to Gerald's proposal to run down with his
young relatives the following Saturday.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
"I don't see how I can go on being engaged to you," Hazel announced.
It was a chilly day in October. Autumnal tints abounded in splendour.
Hazel herself suggested autumn to Paul's mind. Her soft, nut-brown hair
was surmounted by a little scarlet cap, fur-trimmed; and she wore a
scarlet coat, edged also with brown fur. She seemed a combination of
wych-hazel and mountain ash. They were driving in Paul's trap, on
visiting intent. The persons about to be honoured were Bobbie Boutcher
and Bobbie Boutcher's mother.
"Why not?" Paul asked, in no wise visibly dismayed.
"The boys," Hazel declared tragically. "You don't know what I have to
endure: you have no idea. Even Uncle Percival teases now."
"What do they do?" Paul asked, much interested.
"Some of it is too--too awful to repeat," she averred solemnly. "But
the names they call you--and me!"
"Give me an example," Paul said encouragingly.
"Yesterday, for instance," the girl pursued, "Teddie said: 'Hazel, I
have not seen old Peter for two whole hours: I wonder if he has fled the
country--you must not be too surprised if he has.' Sometimes they call
you Moses, and bring up the old joke: Why is it known for certain that
Moses wore a wig--only, of course, they don't apply it to you."
"I would not mind all that," Paul returned, laughing.
"There is one person who calls you Pau--calls you by your rightful
Christian name," the girl amended hastily, "and that is Uncle Percival;
but then he spoils it by putting the adjective 'elderly' before it."
"How do you mean?" Paul asked, somewhat startled.
"Oh, it is a silly old joke," she answered scornfully. "Months ago," she
continued, with an emphasis that seemed to intimate years, "before I was
seventeen, I had an absurd notion that you were about middle-aged. Of
course, you are no longer young," she went on, in frank
self-justification; "but when I told him--Uncle Percival--that you were
over thirty, he asked if you were bald, and has ever since asked after
you as the elderly--er----" she hesitated, slightly embarrassed.
"Paul?" suggested that young man, and he broke into a hearty laugh.
"Child," he pursued, his laughter subsiding into a merriment something
mischievous, "can't you even quote my Christian name, let alone call me
by it?"
"It comes to the same thing," Hazel returned severely, "and I don't at
all see why one must call you by it, because one happens to be engaged
to you."
"You'll have to come to it, Hazel. What do you call me at home?"
"By it, sometimes," she admitted, "but I don't often mention you."
"Would you not think me very stiff, if I called you Miss Le Mesurier?"
he asked, seeking to plead with her.
"Yes," she confessed, "but that is--that is different." Then she
glanced up swiftly. The appeal in his voice was not lost upon her, and
she wanted the evidence of her eyes to aid in reassuring herself, that
he was not really hurt--that he did not seriously care. The eyes that
met hers were brimming with fun, but beneath shone love and
tenderness--love and tenderness so unmistakable, so all-convincing, that
even Hazel could read, though she hardly understood. And just
discernible, though on the surface only, Hazel comforted herself, was a
faint, wistful shadow, a tiny cloud over the depth of brilliant
happiness, and all because she could not bring herself to take the
leap--such a little leap it must appear to him--of calling him Paul to
his face.
"I will try some day," she said piteously, "but you must not mind if I
can't. You don't mind, do you?" she asked anxiously.
"I should like to hear you say it, Hazel," he answered gravely,
tenderly. "Is it so very hard, little one?"
For all answer the red cap nodded vigorously.
"Then I must be patient a while longer," he said, suppressing a sigh.
When would the child know her mind and love him? It was inexpressibly
sweet, this shy reception of his loving attention and most inadequate
response to the warmth of his advances. There was an indescribable
charm in the quick glance that returned his steady regard, in the
slight, cool pressure of the little hand that could only be retained in
his warm clasp very much against its will. She still preferred the
presence of her beloved brothers with herself and Paul, to being alone
with him.
Then, to his comfort, a vivid recollection of her face recurred to his
mind, when he had told her he was going away for some months. She had
faced round upon him quickly, looking very white and perplexed.
"But you can't," she had persisted again and again. "You can't--you are
engaged to me."
"I promised your mother that I would go," he returned, watching her face
closely. "Only she can release me, but I shall not ask her to do so--it
would not be honourable. Shall you care, Hazel? Shall you miss me?"
But she would not tell him.
A few days later Helen, with her gentle smile, had most unexpectedly
cancelled the sentence of banishment.
"It is of no use your going, Paul," she had said. "The child will fret
and you--you will be miserable."
"And so you feel you cannot endure the boys' banter?" Paul asked of his
companion, somewhat ruefully.
"Oh well," she answered cheerfully, "I must, for the present. It is
rather nice being engaged to you," she continued naively, "and it is so
convenient."
"Convenient?" poor Paul echoed blankly.
"You see," she explained, "I never could get about anywhere: the boys
being almost always away, and Miles busy. Besides, it was very lonely,
with only a servant, about twenty yards behind you. But now, now I can
go great distances, in the trap if we wish, and we can talk, and
altogether it is very comfortable."
"Very," agreed Paul, at once amused and dismayed.
Something dry in the tone of his response made her look up quickly.
"I hope you don't misunderstand me," she said timidly. "I should not
like you to think I was only making use of you. I--I am very fond of
you," she added, her voice sinking, "and I enjoy being engaged, very
much."
Paul sighed. It was a great admission, this, from her; but oh, how
unsatisfying! It was but a whet to his appetite, it made him hungrier
than ever.
A silence fell between them.
"You have not yet told me what the boys call _you_," he said presently,
trying to speak lightly.
"I really could not," she replied, and he was surprised and distressed
to see that she shrank from him, albeit the movement was scarcely
perceptible.
By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung from her a promise that
she would tell him--some time--and then, with a sense of being hunted
and driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with a desperate
courage, feeling that she had better get over the inevitable at once,
seized the opportunity when Paul's back was turned to her--whilst he
examined the horse's hoof for a suspected stone--to whisper almost
inaudibly, somewhere near the region of his ear:
"Mrs. Charteris."
Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture and question the
whisperer, was surprised to find that, quick as were his movements, he
was already too late. The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was
already presented to him as she stood sedately, some yards away,
knocking at the door of the Boutchers' cottage.
Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified beam upon her shining,
pink, well-favoured countenance.
"You're welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint, bobbing curtsey, "and
the gentleman too, I am sure. Won't he come in, miss? It is a poor
place, but he is heartily welcome."
Hazel glanced behind her. Paul was securing the horse and trap to the
stone post of the gateway.
"Thank you," she returned, "Mr. Charteris will like to come in, I know.
We came to see little Bobbie, and I wanted to give you a pinafore for
him, that I have made all myself, after Mrs. Doidge had cut it out."
Bobbie himself, present, but invisible behind his mother's back, was now
dragged forward.
"For shame!" Mrs. Boutcher exclaimed, gently shaking him. "Don't you
know the young lady what saved you from the very jaws? Say ''Ow do you
do?' this moment, and none of your nonsense. He'll understand some day
what an obligation he is a-labouring under to you, miss," Mrs. Boutcher
hastened to explain apologetically. "At present he is no more grateful
nor what he would 'ave been if you'd just let him be."
Hazel had been to see her _protege_ twice before to-day, and found the
constant references to what Mrs. Boutcher termed her "'eroism" somewhat
embarrassing. Nevertheless, the good woman's conversation caused her
much diversion. One singularity of hers was never to mention death by
name, though the meaning of the dread word was conveyed to her audience
frequently, in all manner of ingeniously wrapped up and elegantly
expressed phrases.
Paul came in, and Mrs. Boutcher, with ready hospitality, dusted a second
chair and asked him to be seated.
"And if I might make you a cup of tea after your drive, I'm sure I
should be honoured," she assured her guests.