Chapter IV
About a week after the circumstances of mixed joy and embarrassment recorded in the last chapter, there came strolling through the Le Mesuriers’ wood one Paul Charteris, tall, lithe, and handsome being in the thirty-first year of his age. The master of Earnscleugh was on his way to Hazelhurst with the intention of paying his respects to its mistress, whom he had not seen for some six or seven years, having for that t space of time been an attach in the British Embassy at St. Petersburg. Eight years since, on the death of his father, Vivian, his elder brother, had inherited Earnscleugh and all pertaining to it, including the great town house. Vivian was devoted to his brother, and begged that they two should continue to share the old home as heretofore. But Paul’s was a restless spirit: his college career ended, he must be up and doing. The interest of influential friends soon obtained for the young man the coveted post in Russia, and Vivian, with regret, was perforce obliged to yield where he had no authority to interfere. Therefore, for six long years was Paul Charteris no more seen among his people. Yet, while the elder brother yearned for the companionship he had always known, he could not but admit that it was better so, that action was necessary to Paul. For himself it was different He was essentially a student by nature, and wished only for a retired life. A slight limp in his gait fostered and favoured this recluse propensity, and the solitary years before his death were lived almost exclusively in the library at Earnscleugh, devoted to study, at such times as his multifarious duties with steward or lawyer—faithfully and patiently performed by the young master—left him free to follow his own devices.
Then came the death of Vivian at the early age of three-and-thirty, and Paul was called to take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of the vast estates of Earnscleugh.
He did not respond at once. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to throw up his position at short notice. Neither had the young man any great inclination to take possession of his own, for the inheritance was rendered hateful to him, that had come to him only with the loss of his brother. He dreaded the sight of the empty place, the lonely library, the disused smoking-room, with its many familiar objects: skins of animals, boyish attempts at photography that the two brothers had always kept upon the walls and mantelshelf, as relics of their happy childhood. He shuddered as he thought upon such desolation.
So that a year had elapsed since the death of Vivian, and Paul had arrived only a few days since, his trouble somewhat softened by the healing of time. Nevertheless, it was a sorrowful ordeal. He yearned inexpressibly for the sight of his brother’s form, seated in the old place at the study table, as he had so often pictured to himself; for the gladness that was wont to light Vivian’s features at the appearance of himself, after even a temporary separation; for the tones of his voice. However, the first dreaded days were rendered considerably less painful by the almost continuous presence of Mr. Lewis, the family solicitor, or Crawford, the steward.
Yet, the first press of affairs over, Paul found more leisure in which to indulge his sorrow, and very sorely it beset him: its tyranny at length forcing him to rouse himself and endeavour to throw off the oppression. He presently bethought him of the friends and acquaintances of years gone by, and determined upon a course of visits, that should at once renew kindly recollections and while away the tedium of hours not enlightened by work. The Le Mesuriers were naturally uppermost in his mind, for the Hazelhurst estates joined those of Earnscleugh. They were nice enough boys, he was glad to remind himself—they would be strapping young fellows by now—and for their mother he entertained affectionate memories, for she had been a good friend and counsellor to the two motherless sons of Philip Charteris. Vivian, indeed, could remember her first coming to Hazelhurst, a bright, beautiful young creature, and the boy of six had formed quite a romantic attachment. Then there was that little brown witch of a girl, Hazel. Hazel must be sixteen or seventeen, Paul reflected, and he smiled at the recollection of their last interview, seven years since.
He had taken leave of Mrs. Le Mesurier and of such Le Mesurier boys as were present, and was departing through the wood, without accomplishing a farewell to his little friend Hazel, who was nowhere to be found. Passing beneath an oak, he heard above him a suppressed exclamation, then the rending of “gathers,” and the child stood beside him, holding her torn frock together with one hand and courteously tending him the other.
“You are going away, aren’t you?” she had asked him gravely. “You have been to say good-bye to mother and the boys?” and she turned to accompany him to the boundary fence.
“Yes,” Paul replied, “and I was afraid I should have to go without seeing you.”
“It would not have mattered,” she answered, “you saw me on Tuesday, only three days ago. What will it matter, when you are going away for years, whether you saw me on Tuesday or Friday?”
“But I did not say good-bye on Tuesday,” Paul returned, much amused. “That matters; don’t you think so?”
“No,” Hazel said quaintly. “Going away means good-bye. There is no need to say it, except in your heart.”
“Still I like to say it to you and in my heart as well,” Paul persisted. “To-morrow, when I shall be already in Paris, I shall be saying, ‘Good-bye, little Hazel, good-bye; don’t forget me.’ And then I shall like to recall how you looked and what you said in answer.”
At this juncture they had reached the fence dividing the two estates, and Paul turned to face his little companion.
“I am going away for years,” he said, a trifle wistfully. “Will you give a fellow a kiss, Hazel?”
“No,” Hazel returned decisively. “I am sorry, but I am too old. You may take both my hands, if you like,” she added graciously.
Paul gratefully possessed himself of the proffered hands, and looked long into the upturned childish eyes.
“I wonder whether you will be as pretty when I come back as you are now,” was his boyish comment.
“I don’t know,” Hazel returned indifferently. “I hope I shan’t be any browner,” she added; “the boys do tease me so.”
“And shall you be saying ‘good-bye, Paul,’ in your heart to-morrow?” he asked eagerly.
“Of course,” she said earnestly, somewhat surprised at the question. “All the time till you are home again.”
“Let me hear you say it now,” he entreated.
“Good-bye, Paul,” she said obediently, and made to withdraw her hands.
“And you are quite sure about the—about the kiss?” he asked diffidently.
Hazel regarded him in mild reproach.
“I am sorry,” he said hastily. “I did not mean to ask again. Good-bye, Hazel; don’t forget me.”
He vaulted over the fence and was gone.
Following the same twisting path that he had passed over then, with his child companion, the young man was presently aware that his dog, which had trotted on ahead, was leaping backwards and forwards before a certain tree, breaking into short, excited barks. Thinking it likely that Towzer was scaring some pet or other of Hazel’s, Paul called sharply to his four-footed friend, but was not heeded by that usually most obedient of dogs. Becoming angry, he quickened his pace, and, raising his stick, was about to punish Towzer, when, to his astonishment, its point was seized from above and held firmly—after one or two ineffectual efforts to wrest it from his hand—while a girlish voice said, in laughing tones:
“No, you don’t.”
Paul peered up, in among the clustering foliage, and presently descried the recumbent form of a girl, lying at full length along one of the great boughs—her dress, of the exact shade of the bark, rendering her discovery difficult. The girl released her hold of the stick and sat up, one slender foot and ankle becoming visible beneath the canopy of leaves above the young man’s head, and with both hands she parted the green screen before her face and peeped down at him. It was a lovely face that Paul beheld—bewitching, indescribable in its charm, framed in soft brown hair.
“Hazel—Miss Le Mesurier,” he cried, “have you lived in that tree ever since I went away?” For he now recognised the giant oak. “I always said you were a little Dryad. Won’t you deign to come down and be mortal for a while?”
“Certainly,” returned Miss Le Mesurier, and hesitated. “If you will be so good as to walk on,” she added, rather severely, “I will join you in a few moments.”
Paul did as he was bidden. A rustling among the branches ensued, then a light jump to the ground; and as he turned eagerly to greet her, Paul was almost expectant of seeing one little hand occupied in the holding together of a rent skirt, so vivid were old associations with him just then. She came swiftly to his side, the soft cloud of hair floating around her. In the brown eyes shone a glad friendliness—the same grave, direct regard he remembered so well: a child-like, inquiring, essentially intelligent gravity, often to be remarked in clever, highly sensitive faces—and Hazel’s was a very clever and acutely sensitive little face, in the truest sense for women, womanly. But, though childlike and open as ever, the expressive countenance was more grand, more noble—an earnest that the beautiful little nature of the child Hazel had grown up in the way of its starting, without deviation.
She held out a hand to Paul, very slightly larger than the one that had bidden him farewell; and if it was not browner, it was quite as brown, but such a pretty, soft, warm tinge in the clear, transparent skin as made all whiter skin appear harsh in contrast, to Paul’s thinking. It courteously shook his, and withdrew.
“How long have you been home?” she asked, when the wise, childlike eyes were satisfied; and, truly, Paul was a goodly sight.
“Six days,” Paul returned. “I arrived here on Monday. But there was work to see to; and, besides, I did not feel like visiting any one, just at first.”
“Of course,” the girl responded sympathetically. “The boys will be home to-day,” she added. “Three of them. So to-morrow—to-night even—you will have something cheering.”
“I feel cheered already,” Paul returned, cheerfully enough, as they turned to walk on together in the direction of the house. “How are they? How is your mother?” he inquired.
“Mother is fairly well,” Hazel replied. “The boys are always well.”
“And doing well?” Paul asked. “Affairs are prospering, I hope?”—the fortunes of the Le Mesuriers were ever an open secret.
“No,” Hazel admitted, frankly and without reserve, “things are rather bad, and we are dreadfully poor just now—especially myself. You would hardly believe it,” she went on confidentially, “but if it had not been for one and sixpence that Hugh gave me last Wednesday—already it has come down to eightpence—I should not possess a halfpenny. See,” and the girl held out a limp little silken purse.
Paul took it from her. “What a quaint little thing! May I look inside?” he asked.
“Of course,” Hazel said. “But I have told you exactly what is in it: eightpence.”
And sure enough, two threepenny pieces and four halfpennies rolled out upon Paul’s open palm.
“It is partly owing to the fact of Hugh and Teddie being out of work,” Hazel went on, when the purse had been restored to her, and safely bestowed in her pocket. “They are in town to-day looking for something. But I am very much afraid they won’t find anything. You know,” she added, unconsciously moving a little nearer to him as they walked, “the main difficulty is, I believe, that they don’t look ‘clerky,’ and their name is not a ‘clerky’ one, is it? These trifles make a difference, don’t you think?” And she looked up at him with considering, brown eyes.
“I am sure they must,” Paul assented.
“It only struck me lately,” Hazel, following her own train of thought, presently resumed, “quite lately, how exactly like the portrait of Hugo Le Mesurier Teddie is. Of course Hugo has long hair and a lace collar—he was a Cavalier in the days of Cromwell, you know—but if he changed his clothes and cut his hair, the face alone would be enough to make people say they did not require a clerk”—and she sighed.
“I can well believe it,” Paul agreed, sympathetically.
“I have been consulting the boys as to how I might earn a little money, if it were only five shillings a week,” the girl continued. “They say I don’t look like a typewriter. What do you think?”
“Great Heavens, no!” Paul ejaculated vehemently, horrified at the bare suggestion.
“That is how they feel,” Hazel returned resignedly. “Only, they are a little calmer about it: they have seen so many, you know, poor things,” she added, ingenuously. “Next,” she began again, after a slight pause, “we considered letting lodgings, without mother’s knowledge. But Teddie says a ’cute lodger would take me in horribly. He says I am no more cut out for a landlady than for a typewriter. Do you agree with that?”
“Most emphatically,” Paul replied, unable to restrain a smile, which, however, escaped the girl’s notice.
“You do?” she said, a trifle wistfully, as though half disappointed. “I hoped that you might, on thinking it over, consider it not such a bad plan as it at first appeared to you. I had thought of an invalid lady-lodger, who would require plenty of fresh air, but very little food. Though on second thoughts it occurred to me that we should have to persuade her with all sorts of dainties. So that would not do. But a gentleman, now, a gentleman, however unscrupulous in most matters, would not take a lady in, would he?” And the girl looked for his assurance.
“He would be an infernal cad if he did,” Paul returned fiercely, tugging at his moustache.
“Yes,” Hazel agreed. “I should hardly think that quite such cads existed, should you? Such very infernal ones, I mean. For even the greatest gentleman cad must have the sleeping instincts of a gentleman.”
Paul’s face was inscrutable.
“Now a bounder is different,” was Hazel’s startling announcement. “A bounder has never been a gentleman. He was born bounding, as you might say. I would rather deal with a cad myself: a bounder is so hopeless.”
There was a short silence, devoted by both to reviewing the situation.
“But, Haz—Miss Le Mesurier,” Paul amended, “you—you surely are not seriously thinking of—of this? Especially a gentleman. It—it—well, it would not be very usual, you know, especially if your mother is to be kept in ignorance.”
“You mean, it is not the thing?” Hazel asked, simply, coming to his aid. “Oh, but we Le Mesuriers never trouble much about conventionalities,” she explained airily. “Teddie says that ladies or gentlemen are always safe in following their inclinations—provided, of course, that those inclinations are not bad. Now, I don’t think you could call my inclinations bad,” she went on, meditatively, giving to the weighty question its due consideration. “They do rather lead me to take in a gentleman lodger, but he need not necessarily be a cad, you must remember. He might be very nice, and we might get quite fond of him.”
“Certainly,” poor Paul agreed, rather helplessly. It was evident that Hazel had interpreted his words to mean, he was under the impression that she, and the Le Mesuriers generally, delighted in cads and the like doubtful company.
At this juncture they reached the flower-garden, which, thanks be to Miles, looked pleasant enough. The girl led her companion swiftly through its winding paths and up the broad flight of steps. The marble-paved hall, with its shaded open windows, was deliciously cool and refreshing after the heat and glare without. In one of the wide recesses Miles was busied about the tea-table, collecting chairs from different quarters of the sparsely furnished hall. He turned as the two approached.
“You remember Miles?” Hazel asked of Paul. “Miles, Mr. Charteris has come home.”
The old man bowed deferentially and made to withdraw, but Paul went forward and took the hand of the faithful old servant.
“Remember Miles? I should think I did, and the many things he has forgiven me when I was a boy,” he said warmly.
A gleam of pleasure lighted the butler’s furrowed countenance.
“I have had a deal of experience of boys,” he said, somewhat sententiously, “having five young masters of my own, and I know what is natural to them, and only right, and what is wrong.”
“And I was only natural, was I?” Paul laughingly asked.
“Yes, sir,” Miles answered stolidly.
Hazel, who had gone in quest of her mother, soon returned with Helen.
“I am very glad to see you, Paul,” Mrs. Le Mesurier said simply, regarding him with something of her daughter’s direct gaze. “You are ‘Paul’ still, I hope?”
“If you will—if you please,” he returned earnestly, and it suddenly occurred to the young man that Hazel had not named him at all.
He remarked little change in Mrs. Le Mesurier, save that she appeared to him more frail, perhaps, and the blue eyes seemed almost grey, as though the tears of her great grief had faded them.
“We have much to tell you of Vivian,” she observed, as they seated themselves and Hazel made tea. “You know what a student he was, but he always found time to come to us, and always welcomed my children to his house. Indeed, they had the run of it at all times,” she added. “I often feared it must inconvenience him.”
“It was his greatest happiness,” Paul said simply. “He frequently mentioned the boys and—and your daughter in his letters to me, and how their presence enlivened the old home.”
“Poor Vivian!” Helen murmured. “He missed you sadly, Paul; but he always confessed that things were best as they were; that he would not have you home to pine in idleness.”
She related many anecdotes of his brother that she knew would cheer Paul, and they fell to talking over old reminiscences, presently coming back to the topics of to-day, and the existing state of affairs; and Paul was soon laying before Helen a plan of his own sudden devising.
“Why should not Hugh come to me for a while as my secretary?” he asked. “If he does not care for the work, after giving it a trial, he can continue his search in the City.”
“I don’t want to seem conceited,” Hazel broke in upon the conversation. She was seated near her mother on a low stool, chin in hand, deeply interested in all that passed. “I don’t want to seem conceited,” she said modestly, “but I can’t help thinking that you had better have me. One often hears of lady secretaries,” she went on, in expostulation at the smile upon her mother’s face, a smile that Paul’s countenance reflected; “it would be delightful, and you would not mind how I dressed, would you?” she added, turning eagerly to Paul. “You would let me have my hair down, and let me wear what I liked, provided I came punctually at the hours you named, and did the work properly.”
Paul looked upon the ground. It was difficult to keep the muscles about his mouth under control. Helen was about to speak when Hazel resumed: for it appeared to her that Paul was considering the matter.
“I dare say you would be rather cross with me sometimes, at first,” she admitted, “and think my writing queer and untidy; but I should soon fall into your ways, and my writing is at least legible. I have more of a business head than Hugh,” she added, after a pause. “You see, I am not hampered by a love of drawing.”
Mrs. Le Mesurier had acquainted her guest with Hugh’s difficulties of temperament.
The girl awaited a decision breathlessly, but it was Helen who first spoke, the while Paul contemplated the little brown business head, with its wonderful, drooping hair, in silent and varied emotions.
“It would not do, Hazel,” she said quietly. “Neither Paul nor myself would like it, nor think it wise.”
Hazel glanced quickly at Paul, only to see him confirm her mother’s words by a smiling shake of the head.
“Very well, motherling,” she said resignedly, “and, after all, it would be selfish in me not to let Hugh have the trial,” she added, more brightly.
Nevertheless, the girl looked down at the two small hands in her lap, and sighed.