once concluded that Hazel had returned. Hazel made her escape upstairs
to bathe her eyes. After succeeding in removing all traces of her late
emotion, she entered Helen's room to propose that her mother should come
with her and hear the result of Hugh's visit to their uncle. Helen
readily consented. They were all much interested concerning Hugh's
future prospects. As for Paul Charteris, he was relieved as well as
interested; for the farce of Hugh as secretary was apparently about to
terminate most agreeably--a circumstance almost as pleasing to his
employer as to Hugh himself. He was to study art for a time, and if he
fulfilled the hopes his uncle had been led to entertain of him, he was
to be provided with a studio of his own, and started in life.
"Don't you trouble about finishing up work at my place, old fellow,"
Paul said to him. "You will like some time off, before beginning the
new work."
Hugh readily acquiesced. "All right. I do feel the need of a bit of a
holiday," he admitted.
"So do I, by Jove," Teddie observed. He and Gerald, noiselessly opening
the inner door, had overheard Hugh's remark. "Hullo, Mrs. Char--!
Hullo, Charteris, I did not see you."
The two proceeded to place hats, coats, and portmanteaux aside, whilst
the group about the hearth pushed their chairs farther back, at once
enlarging the circle and inviting the new-comers within its hospitable
radius.
"If I had not completely forgotten it was Saturday!" Hugh commented,
regarding his brothers something patronisingly, as one to whom all days
in the week were alike, so far as momentous settings forth and comings
in were concerned. For was not Hugh a gentleman at large?
Gerald and Teddie did not take possession of the two vacant chairs that
Hazel--who had not forgotten to expect them--had been careful to
provide, preferring to seat themselves upon the rug and support their
backs against mother and sister, in such pose as should render the
stroking of the two curly heads a natural and easy occupation.
When Hugh's affair had been thoroughly discussed, Helen produced two
letters from her absent sons, Guy and Cecil, each announcing his
intention of being home for Christmas. Further debate followed this
gratifying news; and many and ingenious were the propositions tendered
by the Le Mesurier boys for the entertainment of their brothers; till
interruption on the part of Miles roused them all to a sense of the
present, and to the necessity of dispersing, in obedience to the
butler's peremptory injunctions, as voiced by the gong.
*CHAPTER XX*
Teddie Le Mesurier sat in the inner office with his superior. Mr.
Hamilton had a knack of contriving to get the boy to himself, in a
manner which eluded the particular notice of the other young men in his
employment, and which seemed always perfectly natural and without
artifice. Neither did Mr. Hamilton keep rigorously silent throughout
the long working-hours; for, greatly as he believed in discipline,
Teddie's ingenuous talk had an odd fascination for this elderly man,
bereft of an only son; and there were times when, if not directly
encouraged to lay aside his pen, Teddie at least found a most attentive
and appreciative auditor, when he was pleased to regale his friend with
stories and anecdotes pertaining to his and his brothers' younger years.
"Get on with your work, my boy," Mr. Hamilton would say, with a
brusqueness that was supposed to cover any ill-concealed delight that
might have been apparent to Teddie; whilst many a burst of hearty
laughter was of a sudden checked, in the hope that such mirthful sounds
had not yet reached the ears of those in the outer office: thus seeking
to save his own dignity, and his young friend from any possible
ill-feeling among his colleagues.
To-day Teddie had not been invited to sit in the private office; but,
preferring Mr. Hamilton's society to that of his fellow-clerks, and
calling to mind that the leather-padded chair was more desirable than
his own high stool, and that the writing-table was pleasanter to write
upon than his own desk, he decided to make use of these advantages.
Gathering together his working materials, he walked boldly in, after a
slight but withal a defiant knock, seated himself, and was immediately
profoundly wrapped in his task. Mr. Hamilton looked up, somewhat
surprised, coughed to gain the young man's attention, and ejaculated:
"Well, upon my word!" But Teddie, beyond one abstracted look and
mechanical nod, sat on imperturbable, his elbows on the table, his
fingers run through his hair, so deeply immersed--only, indeed, altering
his attitude for the purpose of distractedly turning over papers--that
Mr. Hamilton, passing his hand over his moustache, and giving vent to a
suppressed chuckle, at length desisted from his attempts to attract
Teddie's eye or ear, glad enough not to press for an explanation of such
unaccustomed behaviour; for he liked the boy's company above any other,
and was secretly flattered that Teddie had evinced a similar feeling.
But he decided that the young rogue, as he mentally termed him, should
not go unpunished.
It was early--about ten; work for the day was but just begun. For two
long hours not a word was exchanged. Soon Teddie's most exaggerated
ardour began to wane. He plunged his fingers into his hair less
feverishly, and turned over papers in a less distraught manner. Slowly
but surely he assumed his normal bearing: calm was succeeded by
lassitude. Teddie yawned, stretched, fidgeted, and drummed softly with
his fingers upon the table. Never had he known his superior so
unsociable.
Finally he leaned back in his chair and deliberately regarded Mr.
Hamilton, upon whom he had hitherto bestowed only fleeting and furtive
glances. All to no purpose: his companion remained deeply engrossed
with the work in hand. Never had Teddie known him so utterly impervious
to his surroundings. In the outer office he knew well enough that
occasional murmured remarks were made now and again, or a joke was
cracked: all helping to pass the tedium of the long morning with less
insupportable dryness than seemed to be his fate here. Three hours had
now elapsed in unbroken silence. With an impatient sigh he languidly
resumed his work. But that sigh was too much for the soft-hearted side
of Mr. Hamilton's nature. He looked up. Teddie was viciously making a
full-stop with the point of a long-suffering pen. In truth, so hard had
he dug into the paper that the withdrawal of the pen caused a splutter
of ink, destroying the fair surface of the foolscap. With a
low-breathed imprecation he, too, looked up, somewhat guiltily, and met
his companion's eyes.
"You don't seem quite so busy just now," Mr. Hamilton observed drily.
"No," Teddy returned shortly. "Hang it all," he added, in his old,
peppery way, "a fellow cannot keep up the pace that I have been going
these three hours and more."
He certainly had done more in those three hours than he often achieved
in a day, the elder man noted with amusement.
"Perhaps you have leisure to answer a question or two?" he asked
cheerfully. "I am rather puzzled. I am not aware that I had expressed a
wish--that I had, in short, asked any one to come in this morning. You
were so very busy, I did not care to disturb you by inquiring why you
had come."
Teddy was somewhat abashed, but he still looked his interlocutor
squarely in the eyes.
"I thought perhaps it was a bit dull in here for you alone," he said
coolly. "I don't care where I sit; but this chair and table are more
comfortable than that rotten stool and desk."
"So you put up with my company for the sake of the more agreeable
furniture?" Mr. Hamilton rejoined, eyeing him keenly.
"As to that, your company is good enough," Teddie admitted. "I thought,
you know," he added, dropping his pen on the floor and diving after it,
"we might get on rather well, if this table were looked upon as mine."
Mr. Hamilton was conquered. "Put your work away, and let us have a chat
before going out to lunch," he said. "And yes, my boy," he added
genially, "suppose we consider that your table, and let us for the
future share this room together. What do you say?"
"Done," Teddie resumed briefly. But his companion was content with the
reply. The boy had flushed up and was looking immensely gratified.
At this juncture there came a knock on the door, and a clerk entered to
say, that Mr. Desborough's servant desired to speak with Mr. Le
Mesurier. In some wonder Teddie followed him into the outer office,
and, taking the man apart, asked his business.
"My master is very ill, sir," Thomas returned, "and is asking to speak
with you, sir."
"What is the matter with him?" Teddie asked, blankly.
"The doctors don't exactly say, sir, but the heart's action is giving
out, as I understand it. Can you come at once, sir? It is a matter of
a few hours, at best."
Teddie nodded and re-entered the inner office, to acquaint Mr. Hamilton
with the sad intelligence.
"You had better take a cab and be off instantly," was his kindly advice.
And Teddy, accompanied by the man, followed his counsel, only stopping
at a telegraph office on the way, to ask Helen to come to Lancaster
Gate.
A doctor turned from the bedside as Teddie entered his uncle's room. He
motioned the young man aside, and laid great stress upon not exciting
the patient, and expressed the opinion that relatives should be informed
of the approaching end.
Teddie was relieved to see his uncle look much as usual. In his utter
inexperience he had supposed the fatal illness must inevitably have
worked terrible havoc in his appearance. Beyond accentuation of the
lines, with which age and suffering had furrowed his face, the boy could
perceive but little change.
At once reassured, he grasped the feeble hand that was held out to him,
and began to pour forth boyish words of cheer and comfort, bringing a
smile to his uncle's lips.
"This is only a bad attack. You'll be over it in no time," he assured
him. "Doctors are mostly old women and love croaking. Shall I shake up
your pillow?" he asked, at a loss what to say or do next, "and--and give
you a dose of medicine?"
"Teddie," Mr. Desborough said--and at the sound of his voice Teddie's
hope sank again--"Teddie, we must look this thing squarely in the face.
I am dying, my boy, and I sent for you. I had one or two things to
speak of. I leave all I have, unconditionally, to my niece Helen, which
circumstance you will all learn soon enough now. But what I wanted to
say is this. That little sister of yours, my little Hazel"--his face
softened strangely as he spoke her name--"who has always been wanting to
'earn money,' to quote her own words"--again he smiled--"for the most
unselfish purposes, ought to be told that she, and she alone, has
redeemed the fortunes of her house. But for her I should never have
become reconciled to my niece Helen, or learned to love her and her
children."
"It was my intention," he continued, after pausing to rest, "to leave
all to Hazel; but she will be well provided for; and I know her well
enough to feel convinced that, were she here, she would tell me how
infinitely she would prefer that this money should restore the old home
and the old name to their former status. The child can then go to her
new home, and enter upon her new life with a light heart. Will you tell
her this from me?"
Something gripped Teddie's throat. "All right," he said huskily, "I'll
tell her."
"As for you, my boy, you are not going to refuse, for your own part, to
be benefited by your old uncle's money, in that hot-spirited way of
yours?" Mr. Desborough asked, half anxious, half amused.
Teddie cleared his throat. "No, no," he assured the dying man, "we will
take it and use it. But, I say, uncle, hang the money," he burst out.
"Don't talk like this. You have got years to live yet. You get well
and let us all go on in the good old way. Why, mother and Hazel were
saying how they hoped you would spend Christmas with us, and
we--they--think an awful lot of you. Don't go and die yet."
A gleam of pure and genuine happiness passed over the face on the
pillow. He was not to die, then, quite unmourned; and as for this
warm-hearted boy and his little pet, Hazel, and his niece Helen, for the
matter of that, he could believe that they would rather keep the crusty
old relative among them than be possessed of his money, incredible as it
seemed.
"I should like to see Helen," he said suddenly, and he looked wistfully
at his young nephew. "Do you think she could come?"
"I have already telegraphed to her," Teddie replied; "she could be here
by about five o'clock, I think."
At about that time Helen arrived, eager to be of use, if only to help to
comfort the last hours of the poor life that was slipping away. She sat
by his bed and talked softly to him in her gentle, affectionate way,
careful not to agitate or excite him, keeping all painful subjects from
his thoughts. Once, despite her endeavours, he began to blame himself,
and Helen was infinitely touched at the yearning and distress his eyes
expressed, at the bitterness his words evinced, for the long years of
estrangement from her and her children.
"Do not blame yourself too much," she said tenderly. "I, too, was
wrong. I ought to have pushed my way into your heart and forced you to
love me, instead of allowing you to shut me out. My only excuse, dear
uncle, lies in the fact that I was poor and you were rich, and I shrank
from the possible construction that might have been put upon my
behaviour by others, had I seemed to force my friendship upon you. Now
I see that such shrinking was morbid and selfish. So, dear uncle, don't
be troubled any more. We understand each other now, and freely do we
forgive one another. Is it not so?"
He made no answer, but feebly returned the pressure of her hand.
"All is well with you," she murmured presently, as she noted the weary
droop of his eyelids. "All is well and happy. We all love you. Think
only of that--we all love you, we all love you."
She murmured the words again and again. They seemed to soothe the dying
man, as a lullaby might soothe a little child, who had awakened,
distressed, from a bad dream. His eyes closed, a tranquil expression
spread over his worn features, and he sank into sleep, still grasping
his niece's hand.
From this childlike slumber he passed gradually, peacefully, into that
sleep, the beatific happiness of whose dreams was already stamped upon
the face, smoothing away all troubled lines, leaving a slight, strange
smile upon the lips.
Thus the troublous life, that had somehow missed happiness, passed away
to the keeping of Him who understands all things, so fully, so widely,
so comprehensively, that in His eyes there remains but little to
forgive: for such is the Divine Compassion.
*CHAPTER XXI*
Hazel was standing before the mirror in her room, thoughtfully fastening
her riding habit. "It is _beginning_ to get shabby," she reflected; "but
as he says I am never to wear anything but brown for riding, there is no
purpose in having another made for the sake of change: dark green, for
instance. I wonder whether he would find a name for me in dark green.
Let me see: in brown I am Wych-hazel; in my scarlet coat I am Witch; and
in my white dresses I am just Hazel--in rather a special voice, of
course," she reminded herself, blushing. "But dark green----"
"What name would you give me if I had a dark green dress?" she asked, a
while later, as she and Paul Charteris brought their horses from a brisk
canter to a walk.
"Moss Rose, of course," he answered, without hesitation. "I am so glad
that Uncle Percival insisted that no one should wear mourning for him.
I should not like to see you in black, child. It would look tragic, and
I don't know what I could call you."
"Won't Teddie find it funny going back to college, after being a clerk
so long?" Hazel said, laughing.
Paul agreed. "When are you going to call me Paul?" he asked of a
sudden. "I am longing to hear you."
Hazel looked dubious. "Some people never do," she answered, desirous of
showing him she was not peculiar. "We once knew a man named John
Dalrymple, and his wife called him Mr. Dalrymple, and when she was very
friendly, just Dalrymple, but never John."
"Then suppose you begin by calling me Charteris," he suggested.
"Perhaps I don't feel friendly enough," she returned mischievously.
"Shall I go ahead here, or will you?"
They had entered upon a bit of woodland, through which a bridle track
led to the open country beyond. It was a somewhat dangerous path to
traverse on horseback, save in the full light of day: for here and there
a far-stretching tree would reach out a powerful limb, as though to stay
the rider's further progress; and, as if angered at the prudence of the
low-ducking horseman, would make a desperate endeavour to clutch at his
hat. It successful in this attempt, the trophy would be flung to the
ground in malicious glee, causing a considerable amount of trouble to
the hapless owner; there being nothing for it but to rein up, dismount,
and retrace the distance already passed over to recover the ill-used
headgear.
Under foot the way was smooth enough, well beaten, and, to-day,
frost-bound; so that no distraction offered itself to divert the mind
from close attention to these dangers overhead.
It was a lovely scene. Dew and frost had combined to set a sparkling
filigree upon patches of bracken, whilst in the less-sheltered spots
whole groups of trees stood as if carved in white glistening coral, the
knots and articulations of each massive trunk, shapely branch, and twig
clearly defined against a sky of such steely blue, that the scarlet of
the holly berries was rendered doubly vivid in compliment, and the
shining dark blue-green of the holly leaves looked almost cruel in the
strength and sharpness of their stiff outline--the hard, even curves
between the tiny spikes seeming only to serve to strengthen the
merciless little weapons, as though Nature, in her vein of architect,
was aware of the support lying within the arch-like fashion of shape,
and revelled in the knowledge. Upon the ground dead leaf-drifts in
masses shimmered white and hard-caked together; hollow hazel-nuts and
dry alder cones lay stiff and stark; touchwood abounded--all wreckage of
the passing year, most beautiful in death, keeping life in whatsoever it
covered, giving warmth and protection to delicate root and bulb, to grey
lichen and green mosses; whilst the dead brake fern helped to nurse next
year's glory of bracken--all jealously guarding the priceless treasures
locked within the earth, showing that death is not vain.
Rest in life was upon all things; beautiful in itself and in the promise
it gave forth. For oh, the transcendent loveliness of a few months
later, when Nature should arise from her long, long beauty-sleep,
warm-flushed, star-eyed, instinct with tender vigour, to bathe in dew
and sun baths!
Hazel gazed upon the undergrowth with reflecting knowledge. It was one
of her delights to separate with the eye, briar and bramble,
whortleberry and woodrush, from out the delicious tangle it exhibited,
to paint and fashion it all in spring colours and shapes of scarlet
bells and purple berries.
Now and again Paul looked round at the girl, smiling to himself at her
abstracted face and mien. Twice he called to her to beware of a
treacherous branch, and Hazel obediently ducked. He was about to do so
on a third occasion, when that befell which, terrible as it appeared to
Hazel, left Paul thankful in that the seeming mischance wrought him
nothing but good, and bid him enter into his man's heritage: a woman's
love--to taste of its fulness. For, in an unguarded moment, when stress
of emotion had unlocked the close-fastened child-heart, there was no
time to secure it again before Paul had entered and taken full
possession.
At the moment of turning in the saddle to call Hazel's attention to the
third and last limb along the track, that threatened danger, his horse
had sighted a wheel-barrow--left by some woodsman beside the
pathway--before it stood revealed to his master; and, swerving, with a
sudden leap plunged forward, dashing his rider against the low-hanging
bough that, with nice calculation, he had given himself ample time to
avoid, had not the unforeseen so altered the measured pace that the
riders had adopted.
Struck full in the chest, Paul's progress was effectually stayed, the
startled animal swept from under him, and the next moment he was
stretched his length upon the ground.
With a low cry of dismay, so soon as she could check her horse's wild
curvetting, before, indeed, bringing him to a stand, Hazel slipped from
her saddle and, speeding to the spot, knelt beside Paul's inanimate
form. In an agony of tender solicitude she raised his head, that her
arm might pillow it. The ground was slightly stained with blood from a
small scalp wound and, in most unwonted sort--for the girl was ever
prone to look at all ills in their best and most hopeful aspect--Hazel
was under the appalling conviction that her lover was dead.
Lowering his head again, she opened his coat and waistcoat and placed a
little, trembling hand upon his heart, but could detect no motion. She
bent her cheek near his mouth, but the cold air permitted no warm breath
to penetrate to her senses. In wild grief the poor girl called
frantically upon his name.
"Paul, Paul," she cried; "Oh, Paul, darling old fellow! I am saying it
now, but you can't hear me! I am kissing you, Paul, but you can't feel
it! You are dead--dead--and can never know that at last your Wych-hazel
was able to tell you how she loved you!"
And, with a piteous little moan, the stricken child sank down beside
him, and with her head upon his breast, one arm flung appealingly about
his neck, she mercifully lost consciousness.
Paul, who was but momentarily stunned, heard her without at once being
able to rouse himself from the stupor into which the fall had thrown
him. In dreamy delight he drank in the words that fell upon his ears,
even while he could not comprehend their full import. He felt two
tremulous kisses upon his cheek; but it was not till her voice fell
silent and he felt her weight against him, that he realised she had
fainted.
Then necessity came to his aid. With a desperate effort he shook
himself free from the torpor of mind and body, and succeeded in
collecting his wandering senses. Placing his arm about the unconscious
girl, he raised himself to a sitting posture, and proceeded to chafe the
hand that his movement had caused to slip from his neck to his breast,
whilst in his turn he called her name, beseeching her to open her eyes.
And presently Hazel, with a little fluttering sigh, obeyed his agonised
appeal, and, opening her eyes, looked up into his face, while Paul
talked softly and watched consciousness returning to their depths.
Lying there, placid and content as a little child, the memory of what
had happened of a sudden flooded her mind. Paul was smiling quietly
upon her, and, strangest of all, was looking quite his usual self! The
fearful dread her heart had held, rendered her speechless for a moment,
wrapped in silent thanksgiving.
Then she drew away from him and rose to her feet.
"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Do you think you can move up and down,
however slowly, while I look for your horse? You must not freeze, you
know."
Paul had risen also, and, pacing backward and forward, declared himself
quite unhurt and well able to search for his truant steed.
Hazel's horse was in the near neighbourhood, restlessly moving from
place to place; nor was the other far to seek. The animal had been but
momentarily startled: his panic having quickly subsided, he could now be
heard whinnying at a short distance from the scene of the misadventure.
In a few minutes Paul had secured both bridles, and at Hazel's
suggestion they retraced on foot the woodland pathway, after she had
trundled the cause of the mischief--the woodsman's wheelbarrow--deeper
into the wood, lest some other hapless rider should meet with like
calamity.
As she grew more and more assured that Paul was really none the worse, a
very agony of shyness seized upon Hazel. What had she confessed in
those moments, when unspeakable desolation had fallen upon her soul? And
how much had Paul heard and understood? She took occasion to glance
furtively at him, as they two rode slowly homeward, side by side. It
was generally to find him regarding herself with a new happiness in
every line of his countenance and added light to his eyes, such as
greatly disquieted her.
Arrived at Hazelhurst, Hazel acquainted her mother with the
circumstances of the accident. After dressing the slight hurt with the
aid of her daughter, Helen insisted upon rest and refreshment before
Paul should be allowed to depart for home, despite the shortness of the
distance between the two houses.