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 naïve 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.