no time in coaxing Bobbie to come to her and try on his new pinafore.
She had a way of her own with children. She did not appear to notice
the small individual himself, but seemed deeply interested in the toy he
held, and begged to look at it more nearly. The boy drew nearer, lost
his shyness little by little, and was soon exhibiting his treasure and
expounding its many virtues to an apparently absorbed auditor.
"It is wonderful," Hazel commented. "I have something in this parcel
besides the pinafore. Come and sit on my knee and see if you can untie
the string."
Presently the child was seated in Hazel's lap, contentedly eating
chocolates. He was a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, and Hazel felt
real affection for the little fellow. Beside her innate love of
children, she felt a proprietary interest in Bobbie, whose life she had
undoubtedly saved. Mrs. Boutcher regarded the pair with admiration and
maternal pride, her head on one side, a steaming kettle in her hand,
poised for discharging.
"Look at that, now!" she exclaimed, turning to Paul for sympathy, "and
him so shy as he'll run away when the minister shows his face at the
door, as if it was the bogeyman's." She approached Paul and lowered her
voice. "You'd never guess, not to look at him," she said
confidentially, "as it's but three months ago as he was rescued from out
the Valley of the Shadow. Dear me," she continued, shaking her head,
"yes, it was a mercy--not vouchsafed to all of us neither. There was
Mrs. Jones's now--she's moved since, and it's no wonder--her little boy
fell into the water, just as it might be my Bobbie, and he crossed the
River," she whispered hoarsely.
Paul looked relieved.
"The child could swim? That was fortunate."
"Law bless you, no, sir. Swim? He went down like a stone in the middle
of the stream."
"I understood you to say he crossed the river," Paul explained,
nonplussed.
"The Jordan, sir," Mrs. Boutcher returned in a hushed voice, somewhat
shocked at the practical way in which her guest interpreted her
words--it was not clear to her whether in ignorance or wanton
inadvertency--"the River as we must all cross some day, to reach the
Golden Shore."
Paul nodded comprehendingly.
"Poor little fellow," he murmured.
"You should hear our minister speak, sir," Mrs. Boutcher went on. '"E
just draws the tears to your eyes. But you don't attend our chapel?"
"No," Paul admitted, "but Miss Le Mesurier often takes me to church. We
have a clever preacher there."
Hazel, catching her name, looked up. "Yes, Mrs. Boutcher," she said,
"it is so nice. I used to go very seldom: the boys were often lazy or
careless, and sometimes really tired after their week's work. Mother,
of course, could not go so far."
Mrs. Boutcher had fervently spread a fair white cloth, and poured out
two cups of tea. She now begged her guests to be seated, and whilst
they refreshed themselves, she again took up the conversation.
"Our minister," she said solemnly, slowly shaking her head, "surpasses
all I ever 'eard in the preaching line. Preach? His father preached
afore him, and he has two sons what preach."
"A clever family," Paul commented.
Mrs. Boutcher's feelings did not allow her to find words readily, but
presently she wisely gave up endeavouring to express herself, and went
on in lighter vein.
"It seems to come to them natural like, the moment they ascend the
pulpit. It's just child's play to them, father and sons alike, as it
was child's play to the minister's father afore them."
For one brief moment the eyes of Paul and Hazel met, but they very
creditably maintained their gravity. Paul wondered what a clever
preacher, and a good earnest man to boot, would feel if he could hear
the strenuous endeavour, the never-ceasing watching, praying, and
battling of his life, pronounced child's play.
Hazel could not let it pass. "Mrs. Boutcher," she said gently, "we
surely cannot call the great and good work of clergymen child's play to
them. It is his work, is not it? and the cleverer he is the more he is
bound to do his utmost, as an artist would, for instance."
Mrs. Boutcher was not convinced. "It may be with some," she admitted,
"but it's no work to our minister, Miss. You should hear him--it just
flows from him, with no effort on his part."
It began to dawn upon Hazel, that her hostess had not used the term
child's play in its usual sense, a suspicion that was confirmed a little
later, when the good woman placed a large log upon the fire.
"That is a fine fellow," Paul remarked. "Couldn't I chop him in two for
you, Mrs. Boutcher?"
But the hospitable Mrs. Boutcher demurred. "I could not think of
troubling you, sir. To be sure, it's a fine log," she agreed, "a
regular masterpiece."
Paul and Hazel did not stay long with the Boutchers: they had promised
themselves a half hour with the Traverses that afternoon. They set
forth again, therefore, so soon as tea was finished, reaching The
Beeches within the space of a few minutes.
Hazel breathed again when, on entering the drawing-room, one glance
assured her that Digby was absent. There was the usual warm reception:
Doris, Phyllis, and Francis, who was present with his mother and
sisters, could not do enough for the young couple--surrounding them on
all sides, besetting them with questions and attentions. Finally Hazel
was ensconced upon the sofa--in the very middle--with cushions at her
back, a hassock under her feet, Phyllis and Doris on either side of her,
and Francis gracefully reclining on the floor in front of her. Mrs.
Travers and Paul were seated together a little apart from this sociable
group, but their interest seemed to be with it; the eyes of both were
directed upon it and upon the little gracious central figure, and Paul
could have embraced his hostess there and then for the affectionate
admiration and motherly pride that beamed from her kind eyes.
"I have congratulated you before," she said, turning to him, "many
times, but I must do so again. I think you a very fortunate young man,
and, if I may say so, I also think you are worthy of your happiness,"
she added warmly.
"Ah no," disclaimed the devout lover, "who could be that? But I shall
never cease to try to be so."
"Do you always do your hair up now?" asked Phyllis of Hazel.
"Always," she replied, "except week-ends, and when I am riding."
"Riding?" Phyllis and Doris exclaimed in unison, breathless with
interest. "Oh, do you ride? Who with?"
"With him," Hazel replied, nodding towards Paul, without looking at him.
"We go for the most lovely rides--twelve and fifteen miles."
"Oh, how lovely." The breathless auditors were again in unison.
"I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis.
The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention. "Try not to appear
too happy," she whispered earnestly. "You know the trouble I have with
her--how I try to keep her a child."
Hazel nodded sympathetically. "But I am afraid I cannot help it," she
whispered back. "I am so happy, you know. What shall I do?" she added
helplessly.
"Can't you hint that for many things you are sorry that childhood is
over?" suggested the demure maiden, anxiously regarding the fresh,
sweet, rosy face, the happy brown eyes.
"But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank.
"Oh, Doris, don't keep Hazel all to yourself," Phyllis exclaimed
plaintively. "Hazel, have you got a riding habit?"
"Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor. Uncle Percival gave it
me--he is always wanting to give me dresses, but mothie does not like
him to."
"What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself, and deeming her
little sister's interest in this subject--and possible envy--legitimate.
"Brown," Hazel made answer--"almost exactly the colour of my horse."
"Your horse?"
"_He_ did," Hazel said, anticipating the question, again nodding in
Paul's direction.
"How many hands?" inquired Francis from below. He had never taken his
eyes from Hazel's face.
"Sixteen," she answered promptly.
"What breed?" he inquired further.
"Now, Francis," Phyllis said, "don't begin a lot of your tiresome
farming questions. Hazel, how brown it must all look! I suppose one
can hardly notice whether your hair is down or not. But why do you have
it down for week-ends?"
"The boys," Hazel explained laconically. "It entices them to tease and
call me names if I have it up. Besides," she added resignedly, "they
only take it down, so what is the use?"
"So should I," observed Francis lazily. "I wouldn't have it up now, if
I were Charteris."
"But you look so fearfully young," she complained. "And you must
remember that I--I am an engaged wo--, that I am engaged, you know," she
amended.
"Perhaps I shall be in four or five years' time," Phyllis said, with a
little eager bounce of anticipated pleasure. "Oh, I wish the time would
come."
"Phyllis!" poor Doris remonstrated, appalled. "Be young while you can,
dear," she urged.
"Hazel does not look any the older for it," retorted Phyllis. "Oh,
Hazel, do tell us some of his pet names for you."
Hazel gasped and glanced hurriedly at Paul. Paul, who had not caught
Phyllis's words, smiled at her and wondered within himself whether he
read her glance aright: it seemed to appeal to him for help.
Francis came to the rescue. "Look here, Phyllis," he expostulated,
"don't make any more of an _enfant terrible_ of yourself than you need.
I say," he continued, tactfully seeking to change the conversation, "how
sick Digby will be when he hears that you called."
This announcement effectually turned the current of Hazel's thoughts.
She tried to appear properly concerned, but relief and gratitude were
all that Francis could read in the look she turned upon him.
Paul somehow contrived to bring Mrs. Travers and himself nearer the
sofa, and the conversation became general.
When the adieux were made, Phyllis's contrite look was rewarded by an
extra good-bye kiss and a forgiving little squeeze of Hazel's hand.
*CHAPTER XIX*
But that was to befall which gave Hazel cause to wish that Digby Travers
had been present, during Paul's and her visit to his father's house. It
would have proved uncomfortable, embarrassing, a sore trial of endurance
for the moment; but once over, once the inevitable first meeting after
the event of the engagement was ended, she could but have felt immensely
relieved, albeit her heart would have ached with compassion for the poor
young man, if, indeed, she saw reason for such emotion. She was always
buoyed with the comfort of that doubt. Perhaps he was no "lover." He
and Paul were as the poles asunder; and Hazel could not doubt Paul.
Therefore, either Digby was not in love with her, or there were many
sorts of lovers and many grades of being in love. Paul seemed to be of a
somewhat high grade, she thought.
Hazel was walking through the Hazelhurst woods alone, pondering these
matters in her heart. She had set out for an hour's brisk exercise at
about three o'clock in the afternoon, intent upon completing a favourite
round within the limit of that time, a round that took her across the
comparatively open space where she was in the habit of feeding her pets,
past the great oak, down many winding paths to the boundary fence, then,
turning at right angles, a short way terminating in a hazel copse, and
thence home.
She walked rapidly: the early November air was chill and crisp, making
quick movement enjoyable and exhilarating. The woods were almost
dismantled, but the many trees that were evergreen did not allow their
thinness to be very marked, nor their nakedness too pronounced.
Everywhere stood clumps of sturdy green that endured through all
changes, brave and gravely cheerful, as if possessed of spirit too
strong to know airy flights of imagination or mournful droopings of
soul. They were never more than gravely cheerful, even in springtime's
tremulous joy or summer's triumphant glory: sober enough, indeed, to
give one--at such seasons--occasional vague feelings of irritation at
their seeming stolidness. But ah! the gratitude with which one gazes
upon these reliable, impervious old friends, when all else green in the
dear woodlands is shrivelled and dead; whilst the more sensitive trees,
that undergo so many phases of experience, are fortifying themselves
with the long sleep of winter.
Hazel was grateful to the evergreens now, as she sped along, throwing
them many and admiring glances, vividly realising their sterling
qualities. She was just emerging from the hazel copse, all aglow with
exercise, when a shadow fell across her path, and Digby Travers spoke
her name.
"At last," he said, "and alone."
Hazel's presence of mind did not desert her.
"Why, Digby!" she exclaimed, "how did you know I was here?"
"It was rather early for calling when I arrived," he answered, somewhat
wearily, "so I strolled about in the woods; and presently I caught sight
of your scarlet coat through the trees."
It had been but one o'clock when the poor young man reached Hazelhurst,
and for two hours and more he had been roaming the woods.
"How dull you must have found it," she returned, a trifle puzzled. "You
ought to have gone straight to the house. Being early does not matter
with informal old friends. Come with me now and have tea."
She was concerned for him: he was pale and haggard, but she dared not
express her sympathy too openly, and tried to appear brisk and
matter-of-fact.
"Tired!" echoed Digby Travers, in a somewhat hollow tone. "If that were
all!"
"You are not ill?" she asked quickly, in alarm.
"I wish I were," he answered, with a short, mirthless laugh. "I am sick
to death of living; but no, I am not ill in the ordinary sense of the
word. I am fortunate to have met you," he continued. "I have longed
and yearned to see you alone, if only for a few minutes, to satisfy
myself with my own eyes that you were happy."
It was not quite clear to Hazel why he must see her alone to ascertain
that fact, but she did not care to question him upon so delicate a
point.
"_Are_ you happy?" he asked, as she continued silent.
"Oh yes, very, thank you!" she assured him fervently.
But the assurance did not seem to gladden him.
"So I hoped and supposed," he rejoined, with increased gloom. "And that
being so," he added, after a pause, "what does one crushed spirit
matter?"
"Do you mean yours?" asked Hazel blankly.
"I don't blame you," he went on, evading the question. "From the first
you tried to show me that my attentions were unwelcome, and I am a fool
not to have overcome my feelings long ago."
His words could leave no doubt in Hazel's mind. He certainly was, or had
been, in love. She was at a loss what to say to him, but she was,
nevertheless, profoundly pitiful, for occasional glimpses of
understanding were beginning to come to her; brief glimpses of
slow-dawning light, that grew grey again before any vivid pitch was
reached, were now and again permitted her youthful mind and tender
sensibilities, rendering her capable of a depth of compassion toward the
poor young man, that would surely have brought comfort to him, had she
but expressed something of what she felt. And, all unknown to herself,
it was Paul's influence and Paul's teaching that were thus awakening her
woman's heart.
"I am dreadfully sorry if I have crushed your spirit," she said at
length; "I never meant to. I cannot quite imagine how it has come
about. You have always had me for a friend, and you have me still. Now
you have another friend in him, haven't you?" she added, seeking to
cheer him.
Digby groaned. Now indeed was he convinced that his suit was hopeless.
Il she had spoken of "Mr. Charteris," or even of "Paul," it might
conceivably mean that she had yet to learn her own mind; but when a girl
alludes to "him" simply, that girl was lost for ever to Digby Travers.
"You like him, don't you?" Hazel pursued, slightly startled at the
reception that met her question.
"Oh yes, well enough, that is, very much," poor Digby stammered,
writhing under her innocent and puzzled look. He could not, in justice
to Paul, feel that the girl's heart had been stolen from him, for he
knew he had never for one moment possessed it. Yet there was always the
possibility that she might ultimately have grown to love him, if Paul
Charteris had not come between them. And now he was asked to look upon
"him" as a friend!
"Then try to be happy," Hazel said persuasively, giving him her hand,
"and don't feel crushed any more. You shall--shall stay with us, you
know, often, and we will all be such friends. Still, of course, that
will not be for years yet," she added, blushing.
But this was too much for his fortitude. He dropped Hazel's hand, and,
turning very pale, he walked a few steps unsteadily, leaned against a
tree as if for support, and, sinking his head upon his arm, stood
motionless, save for the laboured heaving of his breast. Hazel hovered
about him in greatest distress.
"Digby, Digby," she cried, "I never thought you would mind so much. You
shall see a good deal of me; you shall indeed. I will ask him--I will
ask him if he would mind your _living_ with us, if that would comfort
you," she added desperately. "But you must wait. We don't want to--we
don't want to do it yet for years."
"Hazel," Digby answered, speaking in short, panting breaths, "you don't
know what you are saying. How should you? You are only a child. But
for God's sake, don't tantalise a poor wretch like me with such cruel
words."
"Cruel?" poor Hazel exclaimed, with a sob. "When I am thinking all the
time of what I can do and say and promise to comfort you! What can you
mean, Digby? And a child indeed! Me a child!"
Digby raised his head, and regarded her with haggard eyes. A very
tender smile played over his drawn features. He seemed suddenly to have
become a grave and thoughtful man--ten years older than the Digby she
had known but a few months since.
"Yes," he said, quietly persistent, setting his back to the tree, and
folding his arms upon his breast, "a child, a sweet, kind, impulsive,
gentle little girl; and as such you are distractingly adorable.
Well"--he straightened himself and advanced a few paces--"God make the
man of your choice worthy of you, and capable of loving you as I would
have loved you."
"I did not exactly choose him," Hazel said quickly, seeking to justify
herself in Digby's eyes, "he--he chose me. Not but that I like being
engaged to him very much," she added hastily, fearful lest he should
misunderstand her.
But Digby understood her better than she understood herself. He read
the new happiness in her face aright--the shy and almost tender light in
her eyes when she spoke of Paul. And he envied Paul, as he had envied
no man yet, the hour to come when the realisation of her love for him
should dawn and break over her soul. He smiled again, a brave smile,
and held out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said, making a resolute effort to compose himself. "You
are just home: I will leave you here."
"You won't come in?" she asked piteously, holding him fast.
"No," he said; "I could not face the others to-day. And don't let me
feel I have been a brute and distressed you. I shall get over it some
day--and----"
"Do you think you will soon?" Hazel asked eagerly, raising tearful eyes
to his face.
"Perhaps quite soon," he returned cheerfully, with a slight gulp. "And
then, as you say, we shall all be friends. Good-bye." He wrung her
hand and walked abruptly away.
Hazel was not to be deceived by this sudden assumption of
lightheartedness. She stood for a few moments looking after him. He
did not look back--never even halted in his walk, but kept straight on,
turned a bend in the path and was gone.
She walked slowly through the flower garden, and, blinded by tears, went
stumbling up the steps, and would have fallen over the threshold if she
had not, instead, fallen into Paul's arms, outstretched to receive her.
And there she remained passive, like a wounded bird, fluttered home.
Paul found the situation too blissful to risk the result of speaking for
the moment. But Hazel had no intention of moving just yet. The breast
of that tweed coat, now that she was shut in before any alternative had
been given her, was a very convenient place, safe from his scrutiny; she
was conscious of a sense of comfort that began to steal over her, and
was vaguely surprised to find how very pleasant it was, to have strong
protecting arms about her, just when she was feeling weak and helpless
and sad.
He knew that she was crying, for he had seen her face as she came up the
steps. He tried to obtain a glimpse of it now, but she kept it hidden
in his coat. He gently removed the red cap, and softly kissed the
tumbled hair. He must know what it was that troubled her. So,
tightening his hold, he asked her gently what the matter was.
"It is Digby," she answered, suppressing a rising sob. "It is all
dreadfully complicated. He is very unhappy at my being engaged to you.
It--it seems that he wanted me himself."
Paul smiled broadly. The next moment he was grave enough.
"What right had he to say such things to you--now? I must ask him to
explain himself," he rejoined.
Hazel could divine from the energy with which he spoke that Paul was
angry.
"If you want to fight," she said, a little nervous tremor running
through her, "you will have to wait. He is too weak just now, he--he
had to lean against a tree to talk. But oh, you would not be so unkind,
would you? He is so unhappy," she added beseechingly.
"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure her. "I don't want to fight the
poor fellow. But he ought to have been man enough not to have troubled
you, Hazel."
"He was so unreasonable," she went on. "I tried to comfort him, and he
told me not to tantalise him with cruel words--_cruel_ he called them."
Hazel raised her head a moment in order to see what Paul thought of such
perverseness. Paul, who made a very shrewd guess at the nature of
Hazel's "comforting," hurriedly raised his hand and stroked his
moustache. Hazel's head hastily resumed its former position, after one
brief glance.
"But he was very manly," she pursued earnestly, anxious to do poor Digby
justice. "I have never known him so--so nice as he was just at the end.
He--he said he should get over it soon," she added, more cheerfully,
"but--but he does not seem to want to live with us."
"What?" Paul cried, with such vehemence that Hazel jumped. "What?"
"He seemed so fond of me," Hazel explained modestly. "So I said, if he
liked I would ask you if you would mind his living with us--in
after-years, you know. I am sure _I_ did not want him," she added
plaintively.
"Hazel," Paul said, gently bantering, "I begin to see that to the
seclusion of your life alone is owed the fact that our future home will
not be overrun by disappointed swains."
By this time Hazel was so far recovered as to be able to emerge from her
place of hiding. As she sought to release herself from the enfolding
arms, Paul bent his head and looked tenderly into her flushed,
tear-stained face.
"Little one," he whispered, "may I, just for once, kiss away those last
tears from your eyes?"
"Oh no, thank you," she said hastily, somewhat frightened at the
suggestion. She proceeded energetically to dab her eyes, in order to
remove all temptation, and, making a more determined effort, succeeded
in freeing herself, Paul most reluctantly releasing her.
He opened the inner door of the hall. As Hazel entered, her eyes fell
upon Hugh's back, or, rather, upon the back of an easy-chair, above
which the top of Hugh's head was revealed. A fire blazed and crackled
on the hall hearth, and the young man was enjoying its warmth, very much
at his ease. He and Paul had been up to town that morning, the former
to see his uncle; and, returning to Hazelhurst together, Hugh had soon
settled himself to marvel over the restlessness of a lover in the
absence of his beloved; whilst Paul, learning from Miles that Hazel was
out walking, had taken up his position on the threshold, impatient for
her coming, yet afraid to venture forth, not knowing by which way she
would come.