Chapter VIII: Part 8

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.

Hugh did not look round on their entrance: hearing Paul's voice, he at 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.

So that dark was falling when he bade his kind hostess farewell, and Hazel accompanied him to the door.

Emboldened by the dimness of the fading light, she crept close up to him, bending her head that he should not study her face.

"You--you knew what I thought?" she asked, trembling a little.

"Yes, poor child," he answered tenderly, stroking the soft hair.

She guessed by his half-soothing, half-bantering tone, that he divined her thoughts. Creeping yet closer, she placed her two hands upon his breast. His own closed over them.

"You--you heard?" she whispered, her eyes downcast.

Then he had pity upon her.

"Hazel," he said earnestly, "I heard you say you loved me, and I heard you call my name. But it was not till you fainted that I was able to rouse myself."

He might have added he could yet feel the two timid kisses that had fallen upon his cheek, but he was merciful.

A silence fell between them. Hazel was wrestling with her shyness. She must know.

In desperation she raised her head and looked quickly into his face. Her lips parted, but it was a quick blush that asked the question.

"And that too, little love," he murmured.

FINIS