Chapter VII
Upon a day—a Tuesday, to be specific—there passed into the gates of Hazelhurst a smart trap, drawn at a smart pace by a smart horse, the smart equipage being impelled by the smart mental qualifications of Digby Travers, dubbed “Greeky.” The turn-out was really remarkably smart; the trap itself, with its polished woodwork and brass appointments, glistened and shone in the sunlight, whilst the gleam of the plated harness was reflected in the glossy coat of the well-groomed quadruped.
Paul Charteris had for the space of a whole hour waited and watched in the marble hall of Hazelhurst, his restless pacing only relieved by occasional halts at the foot of the stairway that led—well, to the rooms above, and to Hazel’s chamber, that numbered, naturally enough, among the rest. His vigil began at precisely one minute to ten, and the ancient grandfather’s clock was even now tremulously clearing its throat with wheezy, whirring sound, suggestive of asthma, preparatory to striking eleven. Truth to tell, it was only with considerable effort that the clock could strike at all, its general feebleness being the more marked since undergoing a very severe operation, not too skilfully performed, by Teddie Le Mesurier, wherein the whole of the worn internal mechanism was taken to pieces and subjected to the hardy treatment—better suited to the constitution of younger clocks—of oil and emery-paper, the massage being administered with no light hand. Furthermore, there was a strong misgiving in the minds of all but Teddie himself as to whether there was not some flaw in the reconstruction of the clock. But the boy was sensitive upon the point, and easily hurt, so that it was only by furtive glances in its direction that the family ever dared to manifest anxiety when sounds, more dubious than ordinary, seemed to suggest that each struggle to give expression to the time of day must surely be the last.
The eleven laboured strokes were just completed when the sound of wheels fell upon Paul’s ear. He withdrew his patient gaze from the direction of the remote sanctum above and turned to look uneasily through the arched doorway, to see Travers’s trap pull up before it. At the same moment Hazel appeared at the head of the staircase, flushed and important, dragging at an enormous trunk. Paul sprang to her aid, and, bracing every muscle for a mighty effort, nearly overbalanced himself, as the trunk responded to his exertions with the most unexpected and discomposing readiness, being in truth of that light consistency known as wickerwork, and covered with black leather; nor was it one quarter part full.
“Why, it’s nearly empty,” he exclaimed in triumphant tone, for the fact argued well for the shortness of the proposed visit.
“Nearly empty!” Hazel cried, indignant, “and I have been nearly an hour packing! There are two or three changes of ribbons, and two pairs of shoes, besides what I am wearing, and my best muslin that has just been ‘got up,’ and must not be crushed, Mrs. Doidge says. I wonder if you would mind going to the horse’s head. Digby is waiting to come in,” she broke off, as a prolonged whistle was heard from without.
Digby Travers, shading his eyes from the glare, could just discern a man’s form, which he supposed by its occupation of trunk-bearer to be that of a servant. Paul, eager to fulfil the little lady’s slightest behest, safely deposited his burden near the entrance, and presented himself before the surprised and somewhat disconcerted Travers.
“I—would you be so very good as to mind the horse while I look for a servant?” Digby stammered. “I have come to take Miss Le Mesurier back with me,” he added, a suggestion of defiance marking look and tone as he encountered the nascent hostility of the other’s glance.
Paul felt resentment in that young Travers should make use of so formal an appellation in naming the girl, knowing well that for years—from earliest childhood—the two had been Hazel and Digby to one another. The formality was for him, then—for his benefit: that he might the more readily comprehend, once and for all, his exact position toward the Le Mesurier family in general, and toward Hazel in particular. He was to understand that he was not accounted friend of the family in the astute eyes of this old and staunch, if somewhat proprietary, ally of the house of Le Mesurier. Yet, with complete though not unnatural inconsistency, Paul in his heart of hearts knew, and, knowing, owned, that the mention of the girl’s Christian name would have been quite as distasteful to him.
“Why did you not bring a man with you?” he asked, striving to speak with polite indifference. “But perhaps you are not aware how shorthanded Mrs. Le Mesurier is. There is only one servant here, old Miles, and—well, it stands to reason, he is always busy.”
Digby stared politely.
“My name is Travers,” he said at length, ingenuously; as who shall say, “Now that I have put aside any doubt as to my identity, you will be spared the trouble of making further communication concerning the Le Mesuriers.” “You are Charteris—Paul Charteris,” he continued. “I remember your face quite well, though it is ages since we met. Thanks, awfully, for looking to the horse, but I must find Miles to help me up with that trunk,” and he eyed with complacent regard the black, dome-topped object just discernible in the shadow of the hall.
“It is very light,” Paul returned, not ill pleased to volunteer the information, “Do you know where Miles is?” he asked of Hazel, who appeared at that moment, framed in the great arched doorway—and a very pretty picture she made.
Digby sprang to her, and Paul groaned inwardly as he marked the fervour of the young man’s greeting, albeit he found comfort in noting the girl’s cool reception of, and most inadequate response to, the same; for she withdrew her hand from the devout clasp that held it, so soon as the orthodox number of moments to be devoted to that ceremony was ended. Nor did her eyes rest upon his face longer than the one direct look—of Hazel’s peculiar directness—that kindly interest and innate courtesy alike dictated.
“Why didn’t you bring some one with you?” she asked, somewhat severely. “It is not very polite to oblige Mr. Charteris to stand in the sun.”
“There was the luggage,” faltered Digby. “There was not much room, you know.”
He glanced sheepishly at Paul, but there was understanding without sympathy to be read in Paul’s countenance; and young Travers inwardly dubbed this old acquaintance and near neighbour of the Le Mesuriers, hard and callous of disposition.
“Well, I’ll hold the horse,” Hazel said, descending the steps and taking the bridle from Paul’s hand, “and perhaps you two would not mind lifting up the trunk. It is not so heavy as it looks.”
This matter dexterously accomplished, Digby Travers got to his seat again, expecting Paul to help Hazel to her allotted place, frankly eager to be gone. He was somewhat taken aback when the girl, who had disappeared for the space of a few moments, returned with an enormous umbrella of sombre green hue, which she opened with some difficulty, and proffered to him with both hands, gravely matter-of-fact.
“I shall not be long,” she announced, “but I want to see mother again before we start, and—and I did not know Mr. Charteris had called. You don’t mind, do you?” she added, “It is rather heavy, but the stick is so tall that you can rest the handle on the seat beside you if you take your hat off, and, though ugly, it casts a cool and restful light.”
So saying she re-entered the house, followed by Paul, leaving poor Digby disconsolate beneath an extensive shade; so extensive, indeed, that though noonday was approaching and the sun was high in the heavens, the quadruped also enjoyed the benefit of it, over its hind quarters, well to its middle.
“Have you been here long?” Hazel asked of her companion, as the two paused in the hall, at the foot of the stairway.
The girl’s usually bright spirit was clouded for the moment. A while since all had been bustle and excitement—she had made her small plans and arrangements with much of interest and ardour—had packed her small wardrobe with a keen sense of anticipatory pleasure. There had been something of the stirring nature of the heroic in yesterday’s farewells to the elongated Monday faces of her brothers; and her tender solicitude was not unmixed with youthful elation at the thought that her mother would miss her right sorely. Now, of a sudden, all this seemed changed. Without doubt or question, she did not want to go, and the vague consciousness that Paul did not wish it either, that he too would miss her, did not tend to lift the girl’s despondency; for she was tender, true, and pure womanly, and, being so, knew nothing of the malicious joy of that perversity wherein so many of Eve’s daughters delight.
She sank down upon the first stair, rather listlessly, and looked to Paul for his answer.
“An hour,” he said, “when you appeared. But Hazel,” he added commiseratingly, “you have tired yourself over all that packing. Could not one of the maids have done it?”
“I am not tired, thank you,” she answered absently, “at least, I do not think I am.”
Paul did not look satisfied. The girl was pale, and the small hands, usually nervous-looking and energetic, lay limp before her.
“I am sorry,” she continued, “I did not know. Miles could not have known, or he would have sent us a message. You must have been very dull.”
“I wanted you, of course,” Paul admitted truthfully, “but I would not have had you disturbed. I ought not to have expected more of your company than the few minutes you could give me on leave-taking.”
So saying, Paul Charteris seated himself beside her upon the broad, shallow step, and possessed himself of one of the passive hands.
“What have you been doing?” he asked gently.
Hazel regarded the captive hand, or rather its prison, but her thoughts were not of it.
“Mr. Charteris,” she said, timidly lifting her eyes to his, as with an effort she decided to speak her mind, “do you think—would it be very odd, if I sat behind in the phaeton, with—with the trunk, you know? Do you suppose Digby would mind, or think me very rude?”
“He would have no right to object,” Paul answered warmly, pleased that she had appealed to him. “If he annoys you, he cannot expect better treatment.”
“But that is my trouble,” she explained, disengaging her hand to take up and fondle a fluffy ball of a kitten. “He only annoys me by being too nice. So it seems unkind to feel annoyed. If only one could sit with one’s back to the horse for fear of draughts and smuts,” she went on, “as one would, with one’s back to an engine! I want to sit so that he cannot look into my face every time that he says anything.”
Paul hastily removed his eyes from her countenance. “Just so,” he said, “very naturally.” But, though indignant on the girl’s behalf, he felt he could not justly blame Digby Travers for this.
“And everything he says has two or more meanings,” Hazel continued impatiently. “Now, when you say, ‘Is it not a glorious day?’ you mean: is it not a glorious day?” She paused.
“And what does Digby mean?” Paul asked quietly, the while feeling he should like to demand the answer from Travers himself.
“I don’t quite know,” Hazel answered, troubled. “He seems to think that he and I have reasons for thinking it much more glorious than other people. But I must go up to mother,” she added, rising, “I cannot keep him waiting long, and—and I feel better, now that I have told you.”
Left to himself, Paul paced up and down in deep thought. Did not Hazel’s confidence in him authorise him to speak to young Travers? Yet no; Digby would not admit the authority—would ask a much greater right than that of a friend—nay, of a mere acquaintance, as he would probably pronounce Paul, who in the jealousy of his heart sought to keep others from the girl’s side, to take away from him, Digby Travers, and from all men other than himself, Paul Charteris, the natural right of trying for, and the gladsome chance of obtaining, the affections of Hazel Le Mesurier. No, he must let matters take their course. He could but advise the girl to cut short her visit, should she suffer any discomfort more marked than heretofore. He would remind her that it was not incumbent upon her to put up with any discomfort whatsoever—that she need not consider herself selfish, or fear that she was wanting in strength to endure, for wishing to return home, and in acting upon that wish; for in such wise, he knew, would Hazel take herself to task: she would resist such weakness, as she would deem it, with all the power of her strong little nature—suffering much, that others should not suffer little, as was her wont. He would counsel her to tell her mother of Digby’s importunities, should they become difficult to her own management, or trouble her unduly.
Soon! ah, soon, he might win the right to shield her himself—Paul’s pulses stirred at the thought, his heart warmed within him—the right of lover and true knight. Soon, soon. As yet she was a trustful, affectionate child, at an age when a few months only of patient waiting, of wholesome self-restraint, might see her blossom into a loving woman, forced thereto by the very strength and warmth of his unspoken love, even as a bud expands to a flower in the eloquent ardour of perpetual and encompassing sunshine, however mute and unvoiced that sunshine perforce must be.
As he thus mused, Hazel came down again in greatly recovered spirits; for Helen had guessed more of that which disturbed her child’s peace of mind than the girl herself could have told her, or had acknowledged even to herself; and with loving tact had soothed her as only a mother can.
“Don’t stay away longer than you like, dearie,” she had concluded, “and Hazel, you would not wish that your motherling should not miss you, or that the boys and Paul should be pleased to have you gone? They will all be glad to have you back, and will appreciate you more than ever,” she added playfully, her heart telling her that there was no need of further appreciation on the part of Mr. Paul Charteris, Paul had not heard Hazel’s light step upon the stair, so that she reached the hall and stood confronting him before he knew of her presence.
“I am going now,” she said. “Good-bye.”
He took the outstretched hand and looked into the upturned eyes.
“You have not been troubling for me,” she added anxiously, “about Digby? He is very nice to me, and I don’t really mind him—I thought I did, but it was mostly because I did not want to go. I—I don’t like leaving mother, you know.” So saying, the small hand wrung his, and withdrew itself.
The two then proceeded together across the threshold and down the steps; and, if hard upon the little victim, it was even harder upon him who led her to the sacrifice.