There was too much sheer hard work at Plumton School for Hazel Thorne to
have much time for thoughts of anything but business. She had seen no
more of Archibald Graves, but she was never outside the house without
feeling nervous and in full expectation of meeting him; but as the days
wore on she began to hope that her firm behaviour had not been without
its effect.
For a day or two she had felt agitated, and in the solitude of her own
room she had more than once wept bitterly for her love, but they were
tears such as are shed for the past and gone. There was no hope in
them: they brought neither relief nor thought of the future. Hazel
Thorne's sorrow was for a dead love, and she preferred to think of
Archibald Graves as the ideal lover of her girlish heart, not as the
real suitor who had come to her now that she was a woman, who had been
tried in the fire of adversity, and been found base.
Hazel Thorne's business matters were two-fold--the business of the
school, and the domestic affairs.
With the former she was rapidly progressing. The feeling of novelty had
worn off and she no longer felt afraid of being able to maintain her
position among so many girls, nor wondered what the pupil-teachers were
saying whenever they whispered together; but she was afraid of Mr
Samuel Chute, who would come round to the door much more often than
necessary, to borrow something, or ask a question or two.
The domestic affairs were harder to get over because they appealed
strongly to the heart, and scarcely a day passed without some new
trouble.
To a young girl like Hazel, after the first pangs, there was enough
elasticity to make her feel happy enough in her new home. The rooms
were small, the furniture common, but there was always that pleasant
feeling of seeing, so to speak, the place grow. Her woman's taste set
her busily at work making little things to brighten the rooms. Now a
few pence were spent in pots of musk for the windows. Next there was a
large scarlet geranium in full blossom that cost the extravagant sum of
sixpence; then blinds were made for the windows. A dozen such little
things were done week by week, and as each triumph was achieved, and the
place grew daily brighter and more tasty and refined, a feeling of
satisfaction would come at times into her breast in spite of the
wet-blanketism that was always being laid over everything by Mrs
Thorne.
"It is not that I mind the humble cottage, and the pitifully mean
furniture, Hazel, my dear," sighed Mrs Thorne, "anything would do for
me. I am getting an old woman now."
"No, no, dear," said Hazel. "You are not old; and you are far better
than you were."
"You don't know, Hazel. I alone feel the worm eating away at the bud of
my life; but as I was saying, I don't mind; it is for you I think and
weep."
"Then why think and weep, mamma dear?--there, you see I said mamma this
time."
"Don't say mamma to please me, Hazel I am only your poor helpless,
burdensome mother, now. You say, why think and weep? I will tell you:
because it breaks my heart to see my child wasting herself here, and
performing the most menial duties, when she ought to be taking her place
amongst the richest of the land."
"I should be as happy as could be, dear, and I don't mind the work, if
you would only get quite well."
"Well, Hazel? Never any more. Let me only see you satisfactorily
married, and I shall be ready to die in peace."
"No, no, no, dear!" cried Hazel; "and pray don't say any more about such
things."
"I must my dear; but tell me, has Mr Graves been down again?"
"No, mother."