Hazelhurst

Chapter XII

Time—five o’clock in the afternoon. Scene—the homestead of Paul Charteris, or rather that portion of the house, the windows of which opened upon the verandah overlooking the green lawn that merged into the Le Mesuriers’ ground. The sky was dark and lurid. Thick, straight lines of silver rain were striking slantwise upon the lawn, like giant harp-strings, the wind playing discordant notes upon them, until the prelude ended in a crash of thunder, and the whole power of the invisible orchestra began.

For the last few days the weather had been immoderately hot, and it seemed that, their last atom of patience chafed away by the discomfort of the extreme heat, even the most worm-like among the spirits of the air had turned at last, and in an access of irritable sensibility were giving vent to their opinions, and flinging inertia and exhausted forces to the winds. Some rode upon darkling clouds that scudded across the angry heavens, colliding with one another in their haste: or, who shall say, perhaps deliberately charging one another in their tempestuous rage, making a veritable tilting-ground of that usually peaceful realm, the clash of their invisible lances striking fire in vivid zig-zag streaks, whilst the thunder of their contact seemed to shake the very earth. Others again put their whole energy into the rain, as if seeking to deluge the countryside; and mercilessly did they beat a little bowed and huddled figure that emerged from the comparative shelter of the trees, after a moment of fearful hesitation, and sped across the open, making directly for the verandah.

Paul Charteris sat within his library, deeply brooding. He appeared to be occupied at the writing-table, but for long his pen had remained idle. He found difficulty in concentrating his thoughts upon the work in hand; all sorts of pleasant and congenial fancies had hold of him. But presently a tapping upon the window-pane began to attract his attention intermittently, unconsciously teasing, till, shaking off his reverie, he fell to blaming the gardener.

“That jasmine down again,” ran his thoughts. “But perhaps it is hardly Tompkins’s fault, though I did tell him to see to it himself last time—such rain and wind as this! But no, it cannot be the jasmine.”

For the taps had become insistent, to an accompaniment of what sounded like the kicking of a foot against the lower wood part of the door-window—little, sharp, imperative kicks—and Paul, fully roused at last, sprang to his feet, faced about, and saw in the dim light, to his no small amazement, a muffled figure, the head shrouded in a long dark cloak. He opened the window, and was about to resent this intrusion at so private a part of the house, beginning with directions as to where the doors were to be found, when the figure darted past him into the room, with gesture and movement familiar to him; and letting the cloak drop in a damp heap upon the floor, Hazel Le Mesurier stood laughing at him.

“How astonished you look,” she cried, “and it certainly is a queer afternoon to choose for calling; but I did not have to put on my best things to run over here, and I particularly want to see you; I have not slept much for two nights thinking about it,” she added, suddenly grave, and seating herself in a lounge-chair with something of the gesture of a tired child.

Paul stood still, his hand upon the open window, collecting his senses. What a delicious, unexpected, utterly unlooked-for treat. He could hardly believe in his good fortune.

“You had better shut the window,” Hazel resumed, the least hint of petulance in her tone. “See, the rain is driving in. Even the verandah roof is not broad enough to keep out such rain. Oh dear, it was a business to get here—but I had to come.”

A slight uneasiness was beginning to mingle with Paul’s delight. Did the girl’s mother know of her daughter’s visit to him in this somewhat unconventional, impulsive way? Probably not. Yet he durst not risk offending the little lady by such a question, which, to say the least, would hardly sound polite. Any way here she was, here, and the storm-darkened room. seemed flooded with sunshine! Then a thought struck him: Hugh had not left the house. He felt he ought to propose fetching Hugh, but he was much afraid that Hazel would eagerly jump at the chance of seeing her brother, in her sociable little way, and in her utter indifference as to whether she was alone with Paul or not.

“You have not had tea?” Paul asked, closing the window and advancing into the room. “Shall I ring for some, and—and ask Hugh to join us?”

“You can ring for tea,” Hazel rejoined decisively, “but I don’t want Hugh here—at all events not just yet. He would be the very worst person to overhear what I have to say. I must say it to you quite alone.”

Paul felt immensely relieved. He had done his duty; he had left the settlement of a slightly embarrassing situation to the lady, and if that lady forbade him to call a third person to the interview about to take place, it was not for him to insist. Yet, on looking at her again his conscience smote him. The lady was so young, so unsophisticated—his bonnie Hazel—perhaps he ought to act for her, give her brotherly advice and hints as to what was customary.

But no, he could not do it. If he succeeded in making her see at all what he meant, it would be at the cost of embarrassing her, and nothing would be more cruel than so to wound the girl.

He seated himself at some distance from her and divined, to his amused chagrin, from her look of surprise, as she involuntarily glanced at a chair near her own and thence to the one he had taken, that she had momentarily deemed him unfriendly inclined, but was the next instant content and satisfied with the reason of his action: the chair he had taken was the more comfortable!

“You have forgotten to ring,” she began; “but it is just as well, because I shall only keep you a few minutes and then you can have tea, and Hugh.” Paul felt a third misinterpretation of his movements would be a last straw. “I daresay you are pining for company this dull afternoon,” she continued; “and oh, Mr. Charteris,” she broke off, “it is very serious what I have to say.”

“You shall tell me in a moment,” he replied; “but are you not very wet? Had I not better put a match to that firing? We could dry your cloak, and you could put your feet to it. It seems I am always to see you dripping, like a mermaid.”

Hazel flushed at this allusion to the incident of two days since; but now that he had brought it to her recollection, she took furtive glances at the grey coat he was wearing, an uneasy sense that it was familiar to her pervading her mind; and surely, yes, surely—or was it her imagination?—a patch upon the right shoulder showed slightly darker than the rest, as the flames he was kindling played upon his figure, us if it was still somewhat damp.

She was in ignorance of the exact mode of her conveyance to the house, but had shrewd suspicions—suspicions that made her too shy to ask questions. She was sure of one thing: she had not walked.

“You are none the worse for your immersion, I hope?” Paul asked, still busy with the fire. He knew that he was embarrassing her, but his pleasure in her company made him mischievously inclined.

“No, thank you,” Hazel answered demurely. “I am quite well.”

Silence fell between them. “This is going to be a big blaze,” Paul remarked presently. “I hope you won’t find it too hot.”

“Oh no,” Hazel replied rather vaguely. She was trying to screw up her courage to ask that which she had come to ask. Why not out with, it now, whilst his eyes were turned from her? Indeed, if she slipped into that other chair, she would be quite out of his range of vision.

“Mr. Charteris,” came a very small voice from somewhere behind him—she had contrived the exchange of seats so quietly that he, intent upon his work, had not noticed the movement—“Mr. Charteris, are you giving—that is, are you in a sort of way—I mean, do you——” Her voice quavered, and she stopped.

Paul wheeled round and stood before her, regarding her in amazement. She looked up at him piteously, and then away again. Paul, half amused, half concerned at the obvious perturbation and perplexity of mind under which she was labouring, waited in silence, a silence fraught with sympathy, for her to continue.

“Oh, could not you turn your back again?” she cried in desperation, “and—and I’ll try to tell you.”

Paul, with one stride, was beside her and, kneeling upon one knee to bring himself to her level, took both tremulous hands in his.

“What is it, little one?” he asked. “What is this dreadful, ‘serious’ something you have on your mind?”

“Won’t you please to go away or walk about?” she besought him.

But Paul knew that this would be just as difficult for her. “No,” he said firmly. “Just tell me, Hazel, and get it over.”

“But perhaps it is horrid and—and unladylike of me,” she wailed. “Perhaps you will be hurt or offended.”

“Tell me,” he repeated gently.

Hazel moved restively in her chair. “I wish I had not come here,” she said rebelliously.

Paul waited, and then, with a little gasp, it all came out.

“It is about Hugh. Are you having him in—in charity?” Her voice sank to a whisper upon the last, fateful word, and she lay back in her chair, and tightly closed her eyes. What would he say? How would he take it? She had not the courage to look at him.

But Paul never seemed to fail her—he did not fail her now. “Hazel,” he said quietly, after a long pause, “what put such an idea into your head?”

“Uncle Percival,” Hazel answered laconically, with startling promptitude. Slowly she opened her eyes, but she turned her look away from him.

Paul rose to his feet and quietly began to pace the floor. “Uncle Percival ought to be—boiled,” he said at length, indignantly. “How came he to mention the topic at all to you?”

“I called upon him,” Hazel rejoined; and she proceeded to relate what had passed between herself and her relative.

“You are a plucky child to have ’bearded’ him,” Paul observed, when she had finished. He had heard much of “Uncle Percival,” but little to his credit.

“Oh, he was not so bad,” Hazel said, modestly disclaiming the compliment. “I was frightened of him at first, but he got nicer and nicer. In the end,” she added naïvely, “he asked me to kiss him. That was quite friendly of him, was not it?”

“Very friendly indeed,” Paul answered, his views concerning “Uncle Percival” undergoing a quick change. “I had no idea he was so—so human. And—and—did you?”

“Oh yes,” Hazel said blandly. “Just a quick one on the cheek, you know—not at all as you would kiss mother, or as you would hug the boys.”

“Just so,” Paul returned meekly. “The old ruffian did not deserve such luck,” was his inward comment.

There was a somewhat lengthy pause, devoted by Paul to pondering the subject. But of a sudden he looked up to find the girl regarding him beseechingly.

“You—you have not answered yet,” she said, timidly reminding him.

“Need I say anything?” he asked, amused at her insistence. “Do you not know me better than to suspect me of doing such a thing? Why, it would not only be an insult to Hugh, but Mrs. Le Mesurier would be quick to see through, and resent, such interference.”

Hazel gave vent to a sigh of relief; and Paul went on. “How could you credit such a suspicion for a moment? Don’t you see how pleasant it is for me to have some one about that I know and like? Why, that in itself is worth the—the mere salary, let alone the fact that he is really useful. Are you satisfied? Do you believe me?” And he regarded his visitor quizzically.

“Of course,” Hazel said generously, and with a little flush. “Between you and me,” she continued, “I could not help feeling, from what I know of Hugh, that there might be a certain amount of truth about the char—, in what Uncle Percival said,” she amended. “There is no denying that Hugh has not much of a business head, and—and that, therefore, it follows that he cannot be quite as useful to you as you would wish. I—I could not help feeling that the new man you think of engaging could easily do it all, you know. But I quite believe you,” she added sincerely, feeling apologetic for harping upon the subject, or, indeed, for adding a single word after having acknowledged herself satisfied; having clinched, so to say, with Paul in faith and trust. “But he would make a splendid artist, would not he?” she said enthusiastically.

“Yes,” Paul replied, “he is very clever. It is a thousand pities that he cannot take it up; for, I will admit, he would make a better artist than secretary.”

Hazel glowed with gratified pride. “Well,” she said, “I must go. Hugh had better not see me. He would, of course, want to know why I had come.”

Paul smothered a sigh. “But your feet,” he objected. “Are your shoes properly dry?”

“Oh, I think dry enough,” she returned. “They will be wet again by the time I am home.”

“You will change then, of course?” Paul asked anxiously, and Hazel promised she would.

“By the way,” Hazel remarked, “it was my birthday yesterday.” They had both risen, and the girl turned her back upon him as she spoke, and stood looking pensively from the window.

“Yes,” Paul returned.

“You knew?” Hazel asked.

“Of course,” he answered. There was a pause.

“Why didn’t you come then? We—they quite missed you.”

“I was not asked,” Paul explained earnestly. “I thought you might have special plans for the day, and that I might be in the way.”

Hazel waited, dissatisfied, for more; but no more, it seemed, was forthcoming.

“You did not even wish me many happy returns of the day,” she commented, still turning from him.

“No,” Paul admitted, with unwonted and seemingly unnecessary sternness.

“Well,” she remarked, not knowing whether to be more hurt or surprised, “I—I think you might.”

“You know I wish you everything the world has to give—all good and all blessings,” Paul broke out, a marked fervour in his tone, and paused.

“Yes?” Hazel asked, a little breathless, with a sense of being somewhat overpowered.

“As to gifts,” Paul went on desperately, “I would come with my arms full—I would lay all I had at——” He broke off, and with an effort seemed to pull himself together.

“You need not make such a lot of it,” Hazel expostulated, in innocent surprise. “It is not a twenty-first, or anything so important as that. And even if it were, I should only expect, supposing you wished to give me anything at all, that is, I should only expect one present; just a small remembrance, you know, the—the usual thing.”

“There is no usual——” He stopped short and endeavoured to recover himself. “Hazel,” he said quietly, “you have not thought the omission due to carelessness, or doubted my—my friendship?”

“Oh no,” Hazel declared, “and I did not think of presents: they never entered my head. And as to the wishes—well, you have wished them now, and thank you very much,” she added, somewhat hurriedly, half fearful of a repetition of the very full measure, so fervently expressed. “The rain has stopped. I will start at once.”

She left her cloak, at Paul’s urgent request, to be dried and returned to her later. She stepped out of the French window and, turning, gave her hand to Paul.

“I am so glad I came and cleared it all up—about Hugh,” she said warmly. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he rejoined, “and many, many happy returns of yesterday,” he added, dropping the hand.

Something in his tone puzzled Hazel, and she looked at him wonderingly.

“How odd Paul, that is, Mr. Charteris, is to-day,” she mused as she sped across the lawn.