Chapter VI: Part 6

"It may not be news to tell you that I am a lonely old man; but how lonely and, for the matter of that, how old, I am but now beginning to realise. The realisation came upon me with the visit of that girl of yours--Hazel, she said her name was; rather an absurdly fanciful name, by the way: but there, I won't carp, and it suits the child. I confess to you that she has taken me by storm; I have tried to fight against such feelings, called myself a sentimental old fool, in my second childhood, which is probably the right explanation; but however that may be, the feeling remains. She came into this dreary house like a breath of country, this Hazel of yours, and set me thinking of woods, nuts, berries, and flowers. Spirited, too: gave as good as she got from the old man. The long and short of it is: will you allow the child to stay with me for a short while? I know I have no claim upon you, no right to ask favours--I never for a moment imagined it possible that I _should_ ever ask a favour. That I have, and no small one, I grant, is in itself an apology for the past--a holding out of the olive-branch and all the rest of it. Don't keep me waiting long for your answer. As I said before, I am a sentimental old fool, in my dotage, and I am lonely, or I should never have brought myself to the pitch of courage necessary for writing to you--of risking the probable humiliation of being denied what I ask--which, I admit, is all I deserve at your hands.

"However you may decide concerning my request, let there be peace between us for the girl's sake, and for the sake of old times. Let me once again have the privilege of signing myself

"Your affectionate uncle,
"PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH."

"HAZELHURST, BERKS,
"_July_ 13, 19--.

"MY DEAR UNCLE,

"It was with mingled pleasure and pain that I read your letter. I know full well you are lonely. In my girlhood I can remember you as a kindly, sociable man--sociable in a domestic sense: I cannot remember that you ever cared for society. And it is unlikely that one should so change in one's later years as to be happy and content, with doors barred against one's nearest kin; living on alone, entertaining hard thoughts and, dear uncle, let me say unjust thoughts, of those of whom one was once fond. I gladly take the extended olive-branch.

"Do not think me ungenerous, if I say that I cannot make up my mind to allow Hazel to stay with you. She is my only daughter, and your house, devoid as it is of women-folk, is not the place I should choose for a young girl. May I suggest that she should come to spend a day with you, and, need I say, dear uncle, how pleased I should be if you would visit us here, if you could bring yourself to put up with our plain faring and simple ways?

"Your affectionate niece,
"HELEN LE MESURIER.

"P.S.--We can easily accommodate your servant."

"OSBORNE HOUSE, LANCASTER GATE,
"_July_ 14, 19--.

"MY DEAR HELEN,

"I must not grumble at your decision. I will think over the proposal you make, that I should come down to Hazelhurst to stay a while. In the meantime send the girl on Friday next, if convenient to you. The carriage shall meet the train.

"Your affectionate uncle
"PERCIVAL DESBOROUGH.'

When Hazel heard she was asked to go and see her uncle again, she was half pleased, half dismayed. The plan she was evolving for helping Teddie was at once made simpler: for it was to Uncle Percival that she was about to turn for aid, if she could sufficiently crush down her pride. The very difficulty of getting to him, had made her plan seem easy and feasible. But now that this difficulty was removed, she found her little scheme of a sudden assume terrible proportions. However, there was no harm in going: there was nothing _infra dig._ or humiliating in that; and once there, she could feel her way as to what she should confide and what leave unsaid.

When Paul Charteris heard of the prospective visit, he begged to be allowed to drive Hazel to the station; and Helen agreed that it was a long, hot, dusty walk with which to begin a day's outing.

"I think," she added, "that you may take it for granted that Hazel will like to drive--she is not here to ask--yet she was a moment ago. Where has she gone?"

No, of course, Hazel was not there. She had heard Paul coming, and, with a murmured excuse to her mother, had fled precipitately.

"By the way, dear, Paul proposes driving you to the station," her mother told her, when the eventful day arrived.

The girl flushed, and then grew pale. "Oh, mother," she exclaimed. "I should rather have walked. Miles could have taken me."

Helen looked her surprise. "But it is so hot and dusty, Hazel. You will be quite tired by the time you reach London. I am sorry, dear, but I felt so sure you would like to drive. You so love driving," she added, puzzled, somewhat at a loss.

Then a thought struck her.

"Has Paul offended you in any way?" she asked gently, of a sudden. "Is it my fancy, or are you avoiding him?"

"Oh no; he has not offended me," the girl made answer hastily, evasively. "But I love the walk, and--oh well, it does not matter, motherling." And the disturbed young face kissed the anxious one reassuringly, and Hazel went off to make herself ready.

It was a very demure young lady, whom Paul handed into the trap, half an hour later; but, though she had regained her outward composure, her spirit had risen in revolt against her charioteer. She felt like a little snared hare, and was angry and shy all at once. She sat beside him mute, looking straight before her, and Paul from time to time endeavoured to get a peep at the face beneath the hat-brim.

"We will drive slowly," he remarked at length. "If I give Ben Dyson his head, we should be at the station in ten minutes, and we have a good half-hour. Isn't it glorious weather?"

Hazel admitted that it was, and again relapsed into silence.

"You are very quiet," Paul observed presently. "Won't you talk to me, Hazel? I do hope you are not thinking it presumptuous in me, that I asked to drive you," he added anxiously.

Hazel's soft little heart began to melt. After all, it was very kind of him, and thoughtful. How was he to know she wanted to keep out of his way? She did not wish him to know; she hoped that, if by chance he noticed that he saw less of her than usual just now, he would put it down to mere coincidence. Probably he had not noticed; she hoped not--she did not wish to hurt or annoy him.

"No," she answered quickly. Then, with shyness, gratitude, and dignity all fighting together, she added: "It was very kind of you--very. But I am fond of walking. I--I thought you might have asked me, and not mother," she concluded, with some severity.

Then Paul determined to have it out with her. "Hazel," he asked, with grave directness, "answer me truly. Have I offended or hurt you in any way?"

He tried to catch a glimpse of her face; but it was turned from him, her eyes in busy contemplation of the hedgerow.

"No; oh no," she said hurriedly. "You have never seen Uncle Percival, have you?" she asked, bent upon turning the conversation. Paul was rather alarming, when earnest and grave and unchatty.

"Hazel," he persisted, "tell me: Do you or do you not like driving?"

"Oh, very much!" she exclaimed enthusiastically; "and it is a long, dreary walk," she added, off her guard.

Then came a terrible silence. Paul was too generous to take advantage of the slip, and Hazel, feeling an irrepressible desire to know the worst that his face might be expressing, glanced up hastily as she turned to view, with absorbing interest, the farther hedge.

He was smiling quietly to himself and looking very satisfied over something. So much her brief look told her, and she felt her resentment again rising.

"One can like driving, and yet have reasons for wishing to walk," she said severely, again taking up her weapon, but this time in some trepidation.

"Of course," he answered lightly. "One might object to the companionship of one's driver."

No response from Hazel.

"Is that it, Hazel?" he asked presently.

Still no reply.

"I have feared for some little time," he resumed, "that you have been avoiding my society. I cannot tell you how the suspicion has grieved me. I have spent much time in wondering wherein I have erred. Won't you tell me, Hazel, and set me right?"

Sympathetic Hazel was much distressed. "You have done nothing," she said earnestly, "nothing. Please do not think so again."

"But something has happened," he persisted, "and I think I have a right to know what, as it concerns myself so deeply. Don't you admit my right?"

"It does not concern you," she repeated, and hesitated. "One can offend oneself sometimes," she added desperately, enigmatically. "I offended myself a little while ago. You are not in the least to blame. Oh, please, do not talk of it any more."

A silence fell between them. On reaching the station Paul secured a compartment for Hazel's exclusive use. This was easily done, as the early morning city train, with its many passengers, was gone some time since, and there were few to go by this. A handsome tip to the guard settled the matter: Hazel was to be locked in. Having seen her seated, he proceeded to furnish her with all sorts of illustrated papers and a dainty basket of grapes from a fruit-shop outside the station. Then, everything completed to his satisfaction, he leaned upon the door of the carriage as she sat within, amidst a very sea of papers.

"Don't look at that yet," he pleaded, in remonstrance, as she took up a magazine. "It is only two minutes till time is up."

Hazel obediently laid down the journal. It would be unkind to go on puzzling him, now that she knew he had noticed her avoidance of him, and was aware that something had troubled her. It would be particularly ungracious too, after all this recent kindness. Besides, it was easier here: he was farther away, and she breathed more freely. Surely she could look at him once or twice, and talk in a natural manner? She did look at him. He was regarding herself earnestly.

"Hazel," he said humbly, "am I forgiven for not asking your permission, direct, for driving you?"

"Yes," Hazel said with dignity, rearranging the fruit in the basket.

"Thank you," he answered, with courtly gravity, "and--and you did not mind _me_ driving you?"

"No," she admitted graciously. The train beginning to move, she handed him, through the window, half her bunch of purple grapes, as an earnest of her favour; and Paul, reading in the resolute little face, that protest was useless, accepted the gift in meek gratitude.

The short railroad journey was uneventful enough. The girl sat comfortably, immersed in papers. It is true, her mind was slightly distracted by their number; but when it had occurred to her to take them all with her to her uncle's house, it mattered less what she read first, the distressful doubt, that she might be missing the best things, being thus overcome. The grapes she left untouched. Grapes, she argued, were not a fruit for persons in rude health like herself; they were essentially a delicacy for invalids. She would try to take them home for her mother; but if her uncle should chance to be specially fond of them, and she caught him eyeing them in wistful greed--why, then he should have them. Was not the poor man more than half an invalid?

The well-contented guard passed with respectful salutation at every station, and lingered by her window--not intrusively or in any way causing offence, but in a manner that inspired confidence, and rendered communication easy, should his charge wish to say or ask anything. Generally it was a broad back that presented itself, a yard or two from the window. Hazel could not discover that he walked sideways, yet it was wonderful how the back was suddenly _there_; also was it marvellous how his numerous duties: seeing luggage in and out of the vans, the shouting of instructions, the assisting out and showing in of passengers, even the closing of doors left open by phlegmatic men or ladies in clean gloves, finally the waving of the green flag--all seemed to be efficiently accomplished in front of, or curiously near to, her own compartment.

She had half a mind to give him the grapes: he looked so very warm; but upon reflection she came to the conclusion that a glass of beer, in which he might indulge at the cost of a very small diminution of Paul's tip, would be a more appropriate refreshment for a hot railway guard than grapes, and in all probability more to his taste. Besides, her mother, even her uncle, would appreciate them more.

At Paddington Station the guard could not do enough for her. He seemed quite distressed that more was not required of him, and inclined to think Thomas, Mr. Desborough's footman, officious! He was gratified, however, with the girl's prettily expressed thanks for his care of her, and by her friendly little nod of farewell.

If Thomas experienced any feeling of surprise at the surfeit of reading matter Miss Le Mesurier bade him collect, he doggedly concealed any such emotion, and followed the little lady down the platform with a pile, carried traywise, between his two hands, bearing in its centre the basket of grapes, to the waiting carriage.

A few minutes later she found herself entering the same room, in which her uncle had received her before; but this time she was not so fearful.

"You seem to have been plentifully provided with entertainment for the journey," her uncle observed, half rising to receive a timid kiss upon his left whisker, his eye lighting upon the heap that a servant was placing on a side-table. "Is that young Edward again, he of the buns, or are all your brothers given to reckless expenditure?"

"It was not any of the boys this time," Hazel replied laughing; "Mr. Charteris got them. I could not finish even one, so I thought I would bring them with me. It seemed a pity to leave so many in the train."

"Mr. Charteris, eh? That is the elderly Paul, is not it?" the old man asked, chuckling. He was in high good-humour, more free from pain than had been the case for some time, and bent upon enjoying the society of this naive girl, his great-niece, to whose visit he had looked forward with a sense of pleasure that surprised himself.

"Elderly?" Hazel questioned, at a loss.

"Why, yes," her uncle returned. "You said he must be thirty and more. But you would not allow he was bald."

Hazel had at once noticed the absence of wrappings about the poor gouty foot, which to-day was encased, like its fellow, in a comfortable slipper; and guessed, in glad sympathy, that her uncle's health was much improved since her last visit. But she did not inquire after it; she did not believe in the wisdom or kindness of at once driving the poor man's thoughts back upon the subject that too generally held them, and from which, in all probability, they had not long strayed.

She seated herself in companionable proximity, and fell to talking of family news and family doings, since they two had last met.

"And your story?" her uncle asked presently.

"It came back," Hazel said, shaking her head dolefully. "I was particularly sorry, as I had a special and good purpose to spend the money on."

"A new frock?" inquired her uncle.

Hazel opened her eyes at this frivolous sally; her simple ideas upon dress began and ended with a few yards of inexpensive material, made up by the provident Mrs. Doidge--Hazel herself assisting with the long seams.

"Oh no," she explained, "I was expecting _five pounds_ or so. If you like, you shall read it some day--coming fresh to it, you might be able to pick out faults that have escaped mine and Teddie's notice. But I very much fear," she added dejectedly, "that it is all faults from beginning to end, in which case, of course, it would not patch up."

"I daresay your talents lie in other directions," her uncle said, quite sympathetically for him. "You play and sing, don't you?"

"Yes," Hazel admitted.

"Thank Heaven you don't give the young ladies' invariable answer 'A little,'" Mr. Desborough exclaimed in approval. "The girl who plays and sings 'a little' is generally merciless in the number and length of her attempts, and in the frequency with which she renders them. Go to the piano now and let me hear what you can do."

Somewhat reluctantly, Hazel rose to do his bidding. Like all sensitive temperaments, the girl was influenced in a great degree by her surroundings and by the atmospheric conditions of the moment. Just now she felt utterly disinclined for this sudden and most unexpected performance of any musical ability she might possess, with her Uncle Desborough as auditor. The music-stool became a dock, and the little prisoner was put upon her trial before a severe and critical judge.

She seated herself and played, badly enough, a bright piece of Chopin--a sorry choice for nervous fingers and distracted mind. But under all his brusque, nay, hard, exterior there lay somewhere deep down in his breast a very human and sympathetic heart, a fact too often overlooked or forgotten by his friends, and consequently--there being no one to remind him of it--forgotten by himself. Hazel's friendly, gentle ways, and sweet spontaneity had gone straight to the centre of that long-slumbering organ, causing it to stir in new and warm pulsations, to his own no small amazement. He was better aware than the girl herself of the height and depth to which such delicate sensibilities as constituted her mental and spiritual composition, could rise and fall; and knew well enough that the present moment was inauspicious for showing her talent in its true dimensions.

"That is a beautiful thing," was all he said. "Play me something more."

At that there whelmed over Hazel a sense of shame. How unkind and unfair to make any one listen to such poorly executed music--most of all her uncle, who, she now gathered for the first time, was an artist, an expert--for she had instantly detected the sympathy in his tone--to whom, therefore, her best was due. How unkind to let her nervous self-consciousness entirely spoil that which, to such an one, might prove a pleasure, if she but did her best--a pleasure that she feared the old man all too seldom enjoyed in his lonely life. She played again, Grieg this time, with her whole heart in the rendering; then, with a quick change of mood and key, she began to sing a sweet, plaintive ditty, her fervent little soul in her voice, tender, exquisite; then another and yet another.

Tired at last, she rose from the piano.

"Good gracious, child," Uncle Desborough exclaimed, amazed. "Where did you learn to sing like that?"

"Mother used to teach me," Hazel responded simply; "but I don't have any lessons now."

*CHAPTER XV*

Lunch was announced, and the presence of servants did not permit of intimate talk; but, once again settled in the library, Hazel opened fire, very gently, it must be confessed.

"Uncle Percival," she began, "do you remember giving me a ten-pound note last time I was here?"

"I am not likely to forget that incident," her uncle replied drily, "and how royally you flung legacies at my servant, after bestowing the note upon him--for present expenses, it is to be presumed. Well?"

"Well," Hazel said gravely, "on that occasion you made it impossible for me to accept it for myself; but since then you have been so kind, so--so courteous that--Uncle Percival, will you give me five pounds?"

"What for?" Mr. Desborough asked bluntly, but with interest.

"Well," Hazel replied. "I should have liked to keep that a secret if I could; but it is quite impossible, because as soon as I have got it, I must go out, and you will want to know where I am going."

"Certainly," her uncle assented, "and you must have the carriage." He was looking amused now. "Shopping, I suppose?"

"No," Hazel said; "I want to leave it at Teddie's lodging."

"Whew," whistled Uncle Percival. "Sits the wind in that quarter? Is the boy out of pocket-money?"

"It is much more serious than that," Hazel told him gravely. "He has no money to pay his rent with, and the landlady is beginning to--to kick, he says."

Mr. Desborough raised his hand and coughed, to hide a smile. "How has he got himself into this mess?" he asked. "I thought he had a rise lately."

"He was given a rise," Hazel admitted, "but he says that from that time his difficulties began. You see," she went on confidentially, "he treated five friends to a champagne lunch, and a theatre or two--I suspect stalls; I did not want to worry him by asking; but Teddie is so generous."

"The young jackanapes," ejaculated Mr. Desborough.

"I must be very, very careful to keep from him that the money comes from _you_," Hazel said, with charming frankness. "If he knew, or even suspected, I should not be able to get him to accept it."

"Upon my----," Uncle Percival began, but checked himself. "Well," he continued, with pseudo-humility, that sat oddly upon him, "let him think it comes from you, as indeed it does."

"But where should I have got it?" she asked, with dramatic gesture. "However," she added, "let him puzzle, the truth will probably only strike him after he has paid his debts--and then, though he may scold me a little, it will be too late for him to refuse it."

"Well," Mr. Desborough said, "ring, and we will order the carriage and leave the money at the domicile of this grateful young man. He seems to be of a very independent character."

"For anything I know, he will save up and pay you back," Hazel announced cheerfully; "but that can't be helped, can it? We cannot allow him to be turned into the streets. Did you say _we_ would go?"

"If you don't object to an old man's company," he returned.

"How nice," Hazel exclaimed, in genuine pleasure; "and it will do you good, Uncle Percival."

"Humph," was his gruff response, more for the sake of rendering less astonishing the unusual order to the servant, who now appeared--to seem at least in some way his ordinary self--than that he felt any displeasure in the enterprise. Hazel's undisguised delight in the prospect of a drive in his, a cross-grained old man's company, warmed his heart, till he felt almost ashamed of a childlike eagerness to "be off."

With very slight assistance from Thomas, Mr. Desborough reached the carriage step, where he turned, and with courtly politeness helped the lady to be seated. Hazel named the address in Baker Street, and away they drove.

"How well a top hat suits you," Hazel said, eyeing her august relative in frank admiration. "You look like an old Duke."

"Pshaw," he returned, much pleased, and furtively twisting his moustache, "the fitter company then for a little princess like yourself," he added, with old-fashioned gallantry.

Hazel glanced in naive amazement at her simple cotton gown. "A princess," she said amusedly, "dressed in stuff that cost sixpence-three-farthings a yard."

"No one would notice your dress with----" he ended abruptly and changed the subject. "With that face," he had been on the point of adding, but he disapproved of such outspoken compliments, and was afraid of making the girl vain. One of the chief charms of Hazel's unusual beauty was her complete unconsciousness of it--a charm that Percival Desborough fully appreciated.

Arrived at the lodging-house, Hazel made her way in alone. "I shall not keep you long," she told her companion, "but I have made up my mind to speak to the landlady privately."

"I am Miss Le Mesurier," she announced to Mrs. Walters, who herself opened to Hazel.

"The young gentlemen's sister, Miss, I presume?" the woman inquired respectfully. Indeed the sight of the liveried servants and handsome bays quite awed her, and set her wishing that she had sent Caroline, despite her dirty working apron, to open the door, instead of doing that service herself.

"Yes, and I should like to see their rooms, if you please," Hazel returned, "and I have a letter that I wish to leave on Mr. Edward's table."

"Certainly Miss, certainly," the landlady replied soothingly, manifestly anxious to assure the visitor that nothing could be more reasonable.

She led the way upstairs. "This is the sitting-room, Miss," Mrs. Walters informed her, throwing open the first door on a landing above, "and that is Mr. Gerald's room opening out of it--Mr. Edward sleeps upstairs, as did Mr. Hugh before he left."

The girl looked about her with much interest. It was a poor little room enough, but clean and sunny. Oilcloth covered the floor, with an occasional cheap rug stranded here and there. White lace curtains draped the little bow window, and a struggling geranium wrestled with existence in too small a pot, with pale, caked earth, on a little flower-stand with a green woolly mat. The inevitable horsehair sofa and chairs predominated, covered with the equally inevitable white cotton crochet antimacassars, and a hideously designed clock ticked harshly on the little shiny black mantelpiece, behind which a wonderfully dim and speckled mirror had its place. Upon the walls hung photographs of Mrs. Walters at all ages, sometimes alone, sometimes one of a self-conscious group, attired in ugly large-hipped costumes.

"I don't put many ornaments on the mantelpiece, Miss," the landlady explained. "The young gentlemen likes to sit in them easy chairs, and to put their feet on it." She pointed out two chairs that looked to Hazel something misnamed, seeing that they were shiny and slippery and studded here and there with bristles, with a large lumpy dent in the centre of each.

A small sideboard, rather overloaded with wax fruit under glass cases, stood against the wall opposite the fireplace--Hazel suspected that some of these "ornaments" had given way to the feet, now absent--and a round table occupied the middle of the room.

"I suppose they have meals here?" Hazel asked, regarding it critically.

"Breakfast and dinner, Miss; late dinner, if you please. They get their lunches out."

"Yes, I know," Hazel told her; "but I mean, do they dine at _this_ table?"

The piece of furniture in question, though standing straight, somehow gave one the impression of ricketiness, and the girl's warm heart was yearning over the comfort of her brothers.

"Oh yes, Miss; and there is room and to spare on it, now that Mr. Hugh is gone--_he_ would always have the plant-stand drawn up for the potatoes or the second vegetable."

"I cannot stay long," Hazel announced; "I must not keep my uncle waiting, but I wanted to ask you a thing or two: I know you won't mind. Are their appetites good?"

Mrs. Walters raised her hands and eyes to the ceiling, smoke-begrimed above the gas bracket. "I have never known their like for eating," she declared solemnly. "I have a small appetite myself," she went on conversationally, bringing her eyes to the level of Hazel's face, and her hands to her sides, "a little I must have, but not enough to choke the system."

Hazel looked aghast. "But do my brothers choke their systems?" she asked, somewhat startled.

"No, Miss," the woman returned, hastening to reassure her visitor. "Oh no, but sometimes I can't but think it would not take much more. But there," she added, "it may be that I take so little myself."

"Yet you are not thin," the girl observed with kindly interest.

This was delicately put, for in truth Mrs. Walters was very distinctly stout.

The landlady shook her head. "It is not fat," she announced solemnly, pinching her own plump arm.

"No?" questioned Hazel gently, surprised.

"No," Mrs. Walters averred, with grave insistency, "it is not fat. I am blown out, you know, Miss. Puffy, as you might say."

Hazel crossed the room, and entered the tiny bedchamber beyond. So this was where he slept! Dear, old, plodding Gerald, how she hoped he was comfortable. She made bold to sit on the bed to test its springs. There was not much response to her vigorous bouncing. Everything was clean and tidy, but there was certainly no superfluity of luxury. The sight of the water-bottle put Hazel in mind of the distressed geranium. She took it up and made her way to the outer room again.

"You do not mind?" she asked brightly of the landlady. "I am so fond of tending plants."

Mrs. Walters replied graciously enough, but commented upon the amazing amount of water the plant "took." This expression of opinion went far to reassure Hazel on the subject of the boys' systems; food and drink were evidently subjects on which Mrs. Walters was wont to exaggerate.

Teddie's bedchamber was the counterpart of Gerald's, and Hazel had soon made her inspection of it. There was but one striking characteristic--not unusual to top bedrooms--to mark it from the other: whereas in the lower room all was concise, in pairs and sets, upstairs the ewer did not match with the basin, whilst an enormous tumbler overshadowed a diminutive water-bottle. The mirror was cracked across, making one's features appear horribly defective and out of drawing, and the few cheap ornaments were for the most part oddments--a detail which the girl's quick eye noted as a slight improvement upon the austere, unbending stiffness of the severe pairs, ranged upon mantelshelf and toilet-table in Gerald's sanctum.

The loving sister smoothed and patted the little white pillow--Mrs. Walters had remained without upon the landing--and, from her position at the head of the bed, took note of the exact view of the room that must needs meet her brother's waking eyes in the morning light. It was not particularly cheerful: a rickety chest of drawers, lacking two knobs; and above it, hung all askew, a large card bearing the words, "Lord, remember me, a sinner," was within his direct range of vision. The text was printed in silver letters, surrounded by a maze of pink roses, whilst from behind a large cluster of the same blossoms, upon the left of the card, there arose, with amazing abruptness and lack of warning, an emaciated church spire. Hazel could only hope that Teddie was not prone to lie long and reflect; or if he was, that, for his own peace of mind, he kept a clear conscience.

She left her bank-note in its envelope, together with a scribbled explanation, in a conspicuous place on the little dressing-table. It was conceivable that he would prefer that Gerald should know nothing of it, so that she would not leave it in the sitting-room. She made her way downstairs, followed by Mrs. Walters. At the house-door she turned to say good-bye.

"I hope I have not troubled you," she said. "It is good of you to let me see the rooms: one is so interested, you know."

"Quite so, Miss," the landlady answered, "and I hope you are pleased, Miss."

"I think they look fairly comfortable," Hazel returned, somewhat cautiously, "and beautifully clean. I know," she added, anxious to be just, "I know that you do not ask a very heavy rent, so the boys must not expect anything grand."

Again bidding her good-bye, Hazel tripped down the steps, and seated herself in the carriage, which at that moment had pulled up, after a turn or two up and down the road.

"Well," her uncle said, "I am afraid, if you are to catch the train your mother mentioned, it is about time to be making our way to the station. Do you wish to return first, to fetch your papers and what not?"

"Oh, mother's grapes," exclaimed Hazel. "Yes, please, if there is time."

The order home was given, and soon, armed with the same provision for her entertainment upon the return journey, Hazel, still accompanied by her uncle, was driven to the station.

"Come and see me again soon, my dear," the old man said. "And you are quite sure," he added, lowering his voice, that the attendant footman might not overhear his words, "you are quite sure that you won't accept pocket-money for yourself?" for he had been pressing notes upon the girl for her own use.

"Quite sure, thank you, uncle dear. You must not mind. You see, I don't actually _need_ it--Teddie did," and she kissed the wrinkled cheek that was presented to her with real warmth. "Good-bye."

And once again the old man was left alone.

It was in the loneliness of the hours that followed that Percival Desborough made up his mind to go to Hazelhurst.

Alighting from the train, Hazel's eyes encountered Paul Charteris. She looked up and smiled in frank affection, at once setting his anxiety at rest respecting his reception: for he had not asked permission to take the little lady home. Intimating by word and gesture that the guard was welcome to the very considerable amount of literature within the carriage, Hazel followed her charioteer out of the station, and was soon once more seated beside him in the trap. But alas for his new-found peace and elation of spirit, the girl's manner quickly returned to the determined evasion of eye, of question, of himself generally; and again Paul was profoundly troubled. Almost in silence they reached home.

Things had continued in this wise for many long days, when the young man, coming to call at Hazelhurst, chanced upon Hazel in the flower-garden. She made as if to flee, but the next moment, recollecting herself, she stood her ground, and awaited his approach.

"It is my birthday to-day," Paul announced, as they shook hands, feigning not to heed her timorous demeanour.

"Is it really?" she exclaimed, much interested. Hazel was young--a birthday was still a great event to her. "I wish you many happy returns of the day. Mother is in the house; shall we go to her?"

"Certainly," Paul answered, and hesitated. "You will not give me a 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.