Hazelhurst

Chapter II

On this fateful Monday the five o’clock train was miraculously punctual. At precisely two minutes to the hour its serpentine, many-jointed body rounded the bend of the line, gracefully and with dignity, being neither flurried nor dilatory in its smooth, gliding motion, emitting neither shrill whistle nor vulgar puffings, as some quite well-appointed trains do, thinking to force recognition of the length of their run and their hard-pressed punctuality by triumphant noise or most distressful breathing. It is true that the great engine gave vent to a soft, long-drawn sigh, and that its huge body seemed to pulsate slightly as the train ranged itself obligingly along the platform; but so unostentatiously, so obviously desiring not to attract attention, that it was to be supposed the monster’s heart really was a little delicate, occasioning palpitation and more or less exhaustion.

A fair, curly head, unmistakably a Le Mesurier’s, had emerged from the window of a third-class compartment some ten minutes before the train was stationed, drinking in, with the usual rapacity, the sweet sun-warmed air; and presently, the bend rounded, a smile lighted the boyish face, as his eyes fell on a little figure in brown cotton gown and shady straw hat standing upon the platform.

“Confound it all,” muttered the youngest son of Hubert Le Mesurier—to whose memory, peace—“here I have been practising how to make a long face, for decency’s sake, and was really beginning to feel a bit low; and now the first glimpse of Hazel upsets it all, and away goes melancholy.”

Resisting a desire to fling himself from the train while it was still in motion, as was his custom, Teddie, awaiting his time, descended to the platform as one whose soul is heavy within him; and Hazel, her sunny smile checked at sight of her brother’s demeanour, came toward him sedately, in deference to his feelings.

“How did she take it?” were Teddie’s first words, spoken in somewhat hollow accents.

“Much better than you would think,” Hazel responded, seeking to reassure him. “Of course, she hopes you will get some other employment quickly; and—and, of course, Teddie dear, she is rather troubled as to what it was, you know. She is naturally afraid that something rather serious may have occurred.”

Hazel linked her arm comfortingly within her brother’s, the while she apprised him of these circumstances. She did not attempt to persuade or coax his confidence, knowing that in his own good time he would tell her all.

Teddie groaned.

“You see,” the girl continued, pressing the angular elbow to her side, and looking up into the moody countenance, “she can’t help thinking it rather—rather sudden: the dismissal, I mean. That is only natural, isn’t it, Teddie?” Hazel asked apologetically.

“Your bag, sir,” said Mitchell, the younger of the two porters that the station boasted. “Carry it up for you, sir?” the man inquired respectfully. The Le Mesuriers were held in great esteem by Mitchell and his colleagues.

“Thanks, Bob, no,” the boy returned, “it is not heavy”; and taking the lean, attenuated, and excessively shabby portmanteau containing Teddie’s night apparel and toilet requisites from the man’s hand, the brother and sister walked from the station and out upon the sunlit road.

“You must not take it too much to heart, old fellow,” Hazel said presently. “How do you feel?”

“Rather cut up and a bit blue, you know,” Teddie responded with hesitancy. “You see, it was rather sudden, and—and came upon a fellow with rather a shock.”

“Yes,” Hazel agreed sympathetically; “it was sudden.”

“So, of course, I feel it rather,” Teddie continued pathetically, though seemingly soothed. “And, anyway, I gave the brute a fine black eye,” he broke out gleefully, in startling exultation.

“Not—not Carrots?” gasped Hazel.

“The worst of it is,” Teddie continued, gloom descending once more, “the worst of it is that I am not at all sure that Hugh may not turn up one day this week—in this same way, you know. He was given a month’s notice more than three weeks ago, but has said nothing about it, hoping to get something else all this time.”

“Does—does he wish to keep what he has done private?” Hazel asked with delicate hesitancy, “or may you tell me?”

“He has not done anything,” her brother replied; “that is just it: he won’t work, you know. I don’t blame the old boy, I have always known it to be simply impossible for Hugh to work; if he gets a pen or pencil in his fingers, he is bound to draw. Have you not noticed it in him? His blotting-paper at the office is a sight,” Teddie continued, “and, which may have hastened matters, his boss found a likeness of himself—not a flattering one—among Hugh’s papers.”

“How dreadful!” said Hazel in consternation.

“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” Teddie agreed.

“And oh, Teddie,” the girl went on, “my pocket-money gave out to-day. You know how I like to give mother some little delicacy. I don’t know whether you could lend me any. Sixpence would do for to-day.”

Teddie felt in all his pockets and produced three halfpence. “I am awfully sorry,” he said ruefully; “and to think I spent one and fourpence on a steak to-day.”

“You must have been hungry,” his sister exclaimed, amazed.

“Oh, not to eat,” laughed Teddie. “It was for Carrots’ eye.”

Hazel looked her astonishment.

“You see,” her brother explained, “it was after the row. Hamilton had gone out to lunch, and I was going to mine, when I noticed that Carrots, who was sitting at his desk, was holding his face in his hands and groaning.”

“Yes,” said Hazel pitifully, “and then?”

“Well,” Teddie continued, “the eye certainly looked pretty bad—seemed to be a worse one than I really intended to give him, you know, and it put me in mind of beef steak somehow. So I went to the nearest butcher and bought one.”

“But, Teddie,” said Hazel, much interested, “surely a much smaller piece would have done?”

“It never struck me,” Teddie declared. “I was never in a butcher’s shop before. I suppose I thought they would not halve it. The master of the shop said: ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ I said: ‘I want a steak.’ ‘The best?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said; ‘the juiciest you have got: it is for—’ I was just going to tell him it was for a black eye, but there was a wretched little errand boy in the shop, grinning, so I said: ‘It is for one person.’ He slapped a piece on to the scales and wrapped it up in newspaper, and said it would be one and four—which was lucky, as I had got only one and fivepence halfpenny. I ran back to the office and put it down on the desk, in front of Carrots, and went out again.”

“Did it do him any good?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know,” her brother answered. “I left for good after that, you know.”

“But, Teddie,” she protested, “then you have had no lunch.”

“Oh, that does not matter,” the boy rejoined tragically, as on this reminder healthy pangs of hunger reasserted themselves. “That is quite the least part of the whole bad business—I don’t suppose I could eat, you know, if I tried. It is just possible,” he continued, with increased gloom and some irritation, “that the Lout had a rattling lunch with what was over: he could easily fry it on the shovel over the office gas.”

“It would make the office smell rather, to cook there, wouldn’t it?” suggested Hazel. “Mr. Hamilton might be angry.”

“An awfully nice smell,” groaned Teddie, “enough to make Hamilton want to sit in the outer office all the rest of the afternoon.”

Hazel, making a shrewd guess at her brother’s innermost feelings and private sufferings, endeavoured to divert his mind from beefsteak or any other subject likely to aggravate them. And again affectionately stroking the shabby coat sleeve, she proceeded to discourse on divers topics, thus whiling away the time, that must otherwise have dragged terribly for poor hungry Teddy, as the two trudged along the somewhat monotonous track of dusty road, under a sun that was only now beginning to be aware that the hot summer day was waning; that it would therefore become him to restrain his ardour, and to relax his fierce and fiery countenance to more gentle demonstrations of his warm and impulsive temperament.

On reaching the house, after safely bestowing the delinquent upon his mother’s care, Hazel sped across the marble-flagged hall, down one of the numerous passages and through a baize-covered swing-door, which shut off that portion of the house devoted to servants’ offices. She made her way to the kitchen, an old-fashioned stone kitchen, where sundry odours made apparent the circumstance that dinner was in preparation. The two village maids dropped curtsies, and Mrs. Doidge turned from the fire to welcome her young lady.

“Will you kindly be seated, miss?” asked the ex-housekeeper. “Mattie, leave that bit of ironing and place the easy chair nearer the window for Miss Hazel.”

“No, Mrs. Doidge, thank you,” Hazel interposed. “I cannot stay a moment. I only wanted some slices of bread and butter, rather thick, please, and a cup of tea, if you have boiling water. Mr. Teddie has come home, as I daresay Miles told you; but what do you think?—he has had no lunch.”

The three women were quickly in a bustle, many ejaculations of concern escaping Mrs. Doidge’s lips, in that Teddie, her pet and darling—next to Hazel, be it understood—should thus be famishing within these very walls. Hazel had no need to urge haste, and was presently bearing away a tray, followed by many remonstrances from Mrs. Doidge, who protested she could easily spare one of the maids on so short an errand. Teddie, whose quick ear caught the tap of Hazel’s little foot against the panels, rose to give her admittance, and hungrily eyed the food that he yet deemed it only decent to turn from in seeming disgust.

“Just leave it near me,” he said, in response to his sister’s pleading. “I may perhaps find I can nibble a piece of bread presently.”

Hazel had fully expected to find her mother and brother deep in conversation concerning the circumstance of his sudden, not to say precipitate, restoration to the bosom of his family; but the truth was that Teddie possessed very little information of which to deliver himself. It appeared that his bête noire, Carrots, had grievously insulted the young gentleman, nor him alone, but the ancient name of Le Mesurier, in grossest manner, such as no gentleman, let alone a Le Mesurier, could allow to pass and yet hope to retain his honour. Therefore had Teddie risen up in his wrath, and, with vengeful force, had smitten this enemy of his house, inflicting a black eye. The young man’s employer had at that moment made his appearance. We have the sequel of the story in the reappearance of poor Teddie at Hazelhurst on the day of his departure thence.

Hazel, bent on humouring the hungry lad, after placing the food within easy reach, discreetly turned away and occupied eye and hand in the rearrangement of flowers in their several vases, adroitly holding her mother in conversation the while; but when, five minutes later, having completed her task with all possible deliberation, and having duly considered the result of her labour, with head on this side and that, the girl came forward to take her favourite seat beside her mother’s chair: lo, the cup was empty, the plate bare, and Teddie was ingenuously reviewing his boots in taciturn and blue-eyed melancholy.

Despite himself, however, the boy could not long pretend to a condition so at variance with his joyful, hopeful young nature. In truth, by dinner-time, in response to the second sounding of the gong, fresh washed and dressed, his hunger appeased—for it is to be supposed that Teddie was responsible for the disappearance of the bread and butter and tea—he presented himself, to Hazel’s delight, in the likeness of the more familiar Teddie, having set aside all pseudo-dejection, and, if truth be told, looking wonderfully handsome in his evening garb, which, though shabby and curiously appointed with high lights in all prominent places, was well brushed, and displayed a goodly show of spotless and snow-white cuff. So fresh and handsome did the boy look, indeed, that Hazel, quite impressed, regarded him in admiration.

“Why, Teddie,” she cried, “how nice you look! And you were complaining, only last night, that your dinner jacket was not fit to wear. It is a little shiny, certainly, but——”

“You don’t suppose,” said Teddie seriously, amazed at her simplicity, “you don’t suppose that I should be such a noodle as to wear my own evening clothes? No, no, I save my own, whenever I get the chance!”

“Oh, what a shame,” Hazel expostulated. “Then whose are these?”

“Why, Hugh’s,” her brother informed her, with an irrepressible chuckle. “And it is all very well to cry shame, Hazel; but why do you suppose this suit looks so decent? Because, forsooth, Hugh puts it carefully away and wears mine whenever he can. And again, why has mine become so extremely shabby? Because, when he has it on—and he manages to wear it pretty often, let me tell you—he is utterly reckless as to how he treats it: he will lie upon the grass in it; and he wore it a great deal while he was making those bookshelves for you, and messing about generally in the carpenter’s room of an evening.”

“Mrs. Doidge has fine-drawn the hole in the knee where the chisel went through, sir,” murmured Miles, as he offered his young master the vegetables, with deferential bend, “and I brushed and laid everything out upon your bed, sir, as usual.”

“Thank you, Miles; yes, I saw that,” Teddie rejoined. “Well, they will be all the readier. I am afraid I shall be wearing them very soon: something tells me that it won’t be long before Hugh comes,” he added, turning to Hazel.

Good, faithful Miles! With how much perseverance did he endeavour, in things great and small, to keep up his loved “family” to the level of their former status, deeming such condition essential to their well-being! With what toil and labour did he strive that each of his young masters should at all times appear well groomed, that they might not miss, nor show they lacked, the attentions of the two valets whose services had been entirely devoted to his five sons, by Hubert’s order!

And indeed, as Miles himself was wont to confess, if it were not for the saving help of their faithful servant, long ere this would the young gentlemen have presented themselves at dinner in morning dress, to be tended by a couple of maids—Miles always lost his equanimity at the mere thought of women at table. He shuddered to contemplate the probable condition of the plate and glass, that constituted his greatest pride, under feminine control.

He would look into the drawing-room or search the hall—either of which places were gathering grounds of the family—a few minutes before the sounding of the dinner-gong, and if one luckless Le Mesurier boy chanced to be lurking in some corner, in morning garb, hoping to escape the watchful eye of the redoubted butler, Miles would immediately spy him out, and with bland severity inform the delinquent that he would ask Mrs. Doidge to “put the dinner back” a quarter of an hour, if his young master could find that sufficient time in which to make his toilet. His patient persistence at length shamed the boys into meek acquiescence, so that Miles had relaxed his stern vigilance somewhat of late, showing in its stead a pathetic trust in their own sense of right, such as they could not disregard.

The flower-garden too, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, would be overrun with weeds—as he had once found it after a month’s confinement to the house with an obstinate attack of rheumatism—entailing the extra expense of outside help for their suppression. It is true that Miss Hazel had wrestled with the noxious growths—as her little brown hands testified, for she either could not or would not keep on the queerly fashioned and enormous gloves that Mrs. Doidge assured the girl were the correct thing for gardening, and with which the good woman was careful to supply her; but what was his little mistress’s feeble strength, pitted against the alarming odds of the pertinacious herbage? Miles asked pitifully, when even he, tough, work-hardened old man that he was, found the fight a fierce and oft-to-be-repeated one: for the foe, fresh and smiling in their green uniform, seemed to bear charmed lives, and to rise in formidable ranks like so many phoenixes from the weed carnage. Extermination seemed an impossibility, notwithstanding the feverish energy with which Miles went forth to combat, and the wondrous strategy that he brought to bear upon the imposing and ever-smiling green army.