Part 15

So that, while the hosts and their brother Hugh puffed contentedly at the fragrant and ever-coveted weed, Mr. Desborough, Mr. Hamilton, and Paul Charteris feigned to enjoy the worst cigarettes it had ever been their fate to taste, praising them most unduly in that they did not "bite," and were a pleasant, light change for an after-dinner smoke.

"Quite so," Teddie agreed: "those who like a light smoke will--er--will find them light. For myself I confess I prefer a cigar. But then, you know," he added ingenuously, "cigars are rather beyond my means just now, and are consequently a treat."

"I am glad you are thinking of running down to Hazelhurst for a visit," Gerald said conversationally, addressing his uncle. "Run down with me and Teddie on Saturday."

Percival Desborough was suffering from remorse. What an old fool he had been! What an unconscionable old fool! All these years, these bitter, lonely years of mental and bodily pain, years that were a nightmare to look back upon, were of his own contriving. These three handsome young fellows, of whom any relative might be proud--what an interest they would have brought into his life, and to what better purpose could he have put his money than to educate them and start them fair, upon a better footing in the world, than could be attained by their own and his poor niece Helen's unaided efforts? There were two more, he remembered, conceivably as artless and ingenuous as the four of Hubert Le Mesurier's children with whom he was already acquainted. What a fool, what a fool! He saw it now, and all for what? Fancied slights, imaginary affronts, from this or that member of the Westmacott family; probably the outcome of a distorted mind, fed upon morbid fancies, rendered irritable by bodily pain. Real or fancied, they no way included his niece Helen; but in shutting himself away from the world, his injustice had embraced all within its narrow, bigoted bonds; contention and discord had rankled in his poor, warped mind, and burned fiercely, with little or nothing to feed the fire but his own imaginings.

As, in the long hours of the evening spent alone after Hazel's visit, when the determination came upon him to accept the invitation to go to Hazelhurst, so, in the lonely night hours that followed the entertainment provided by the Le Mesurier boys, did Percival Desborough make up his mind to agree to Gerald's proposal to run down with his young relatives the following Saturday.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

"I don't see how I can go on being engaged to you," Hazel announced.

It was a chilly day in October. Autumnal tints abounded in splendour. Hazel herself suggested autumn to Paul's mind. Her soft, nut-brown hair was surmounted by a little scarlet cap, fur-trimmed; and she wore a scarlet coat, edged also with brown fur. She seemed a combination of wych-hazel and mountain ash. They were driving in Paul's trap, on visiting intent. The persons about to be honoured were Bobbie Boutcher and Bobbie Boutcher's mother.

"Why not?" Paul asked, in no wise visibly dismayed.

"The boys," Hazel declared tragically. "You don't know what I have to endure: you have no idea. Even Uncle Percival teases now."

"What do they do?" Paul asked, much interested.

"Some of it is too--too awful to repeat," she averred solemnly. "But the names they call you--and me!"

"Give me an example," Paul said encouragingly.

"Yesterday, for instance," the girl pursued, "Teddie said: 'Hazel, I have not seen old Peter for two whole hours: I wonder if he has fled the country--you must not be too surprised if he has.' Sometimes they call you Moses, and bring up the old joke: Why is it known for certain that Moses wore a wig--only, of course, they don't apply it to you."

"I would not mind all that," Paul returned, laughing.

"There is one person who calls you Pau--calls you by your rightful Christian name," the girl amended hastily, "and that is Uncle Percival; but then he spoils it by putting the adjective 'elderly' before it."

"How do you mean?" Paul asked, somewhat startled.

"Oh, it is a silly old joke," she answered scornfully. "Months ago," she continued, with an emphasis that seemed to intimate years, "before I was seventeen, I had an absurd notion that you were about middle-aged. Of course, you are no longer young," she went on, in frank self-justification; "but when I told him--Uncle Percival--that you were over thirty, he asked if you were bald, and has ever since asked after you as the elderly--er----" she hesitated, slightly embarrassed.

"Paul?" suggested that young man, and he broke into a hearty laugh. "Child," he pursued, his laughter subsiding into a merriment something mischievous, "can't you even quote my Christian name, let alone call me by it?"

"It comes to the same thing," Hazel returned severely, "and I don't at all see why one must call you by it, because one happens to be engaged to you."

"You'll have to come to it, Hazel. What do you call me at home?"

"By it, sometimes," she admitted, "but I don't often mention you."

"Would you not think me very stiff, if I called you Miss Le Mesurier?" he asked, seeking to plead with her.

"Yes," she confessed, "but that is--that is different." Then she glanced up swiftly. The appeal in his voice was not lost upon her, and she wanted the evidence of her eyes to aid in reassuring herself, that he was not really hurt--that he did not seriously care. The eyes that met hers were brimming with fun, but beneath shone love and tenderness--love and tenderness so unmistakable, so all-convincing, that even Hazel could read, though she hardly understood. And just discernible, though on the surface only, Hazel comforted herself, was a faint, wistful shadow, a tiny cloud over the depth of brilliant happiness, and all because she could not bring herself to take the leap--such a little leap it must appear to him--of calling him Paul to his face.

"I will try some day," she said piteously, "but you must not mind if I can't. You don't mind, do you?" she asked anxiously.

"I should like to hear you say it, Hazel," he answered gravely, tenderly. "Is it so very hard, little one?"

For all answer the red cap nodded vigorously.

"Then I must be patient a while longer," he said, suppressing a sigh. When would the child know her mind and love him? It was inexpressibly sweet, this shy reception of his loving attention and most inadequate response to the warmth of his advances. There was an indescribable charm in the quick glance that returned his steady regard, in the slight, cool pressure of the little hand that could only be retained in his warm clasp very much against its will. She still preferred the presence of her beloved brothers with herself and Paul, to being alone with him.

Then, to his comfort, a vivid recollection of her face recurred to his mind, when he had told her he was going away for some months. She had faced round upon him quickly, looking very white and perplexed.

"But you can't," she had persisted again and again. "You can't--you are engaged to me."

"I promised your mother that I would go," he returned, watching her face closely. "Only she can release me, but I shall not ask her to do so--it would not be honourable. Shall you care, Hazel? Shall you miss me?"

But she would not tell him.

A few days later Helen, with her gentle smile, had most unexpectedly cancelled the sentence of banishment.

"It is of no use your going, Paul," she had said. "The child will fret and you--you will be miserable."

"And so you feel you cannot endure the boys' banter?" Paul asked of his companion, somewhat ruefully.

"Oh well," she answered cheerfully, "I must, for the present. It is rather nice being engaged to you," she continued naively, "and it is so convenient."

"Convenient?" poor Paul echoed blankly.

"You see," she explained, "I never could get about anywhere: the boys being almost always away, and Miles busy. Besides, it was very lonely, with only a servant, about twenty yards behind you. But now, now I can go great distances, in the trap if we wish, and we can talk, and altogether it is very comfortable."

"Very," agreed Paul, at once amused and dismayed.

Something dry in the tone of his response made her look up quickly.

"I hope you don't misunderstand me," she said timidly. "I should not like you to think I was only making use of you. I--I am very fond of you," she added, her voice sinking, "and I enjoy being engaged, very much."

Paul sighed. It was a great admission, this, from her; but oh, how unsatisfying! It was but a whet to his appetite, it made him hungrier than ever.

A silence fell between them.

"You have not yet told me what the boys call _you_," he said presently, trying to speak lightly.

"I really could not," she replied, and he was surprised and distressed to see that she shrank from him, albeit the movement was scarcely perceptible.

By dint of long and earnest persuasion he wrung from her a promise that she would tell him--some time--and then, with a sense of being hunted and driven to bay, their destination reached, Hazel, with a desperate courage, feeling that she had better get over the inevitable at once, seized the opportunity when Paul's back was turned to her--whilst he examined the horse's hoof for a suspected stone--to whisper almost inaudibly, somewhere near the region of his ear:

"Mrs. Charteris."

Paul caught the words, and, starting up to capture and question the whisperer, was surprised to find that, quick as were his movements, he was already too late. The small back of the future Mrs. Charteris was already presented to him as she stood sedately, some yards away, knocking at the door of the Boutchers' cottage.

Mrs. Boutcher opened to Hazel with a gratified beam upon her shining, pink, well-favoured countenance.

"You're welcome, miss," she said, with a quaint, bobbing curtsey, "and the gentleman too, I am sure. Won't he come in, miss? It is a poor place, but he is heartily welcome."

Hazel glanced behind her. Paul was securing the horse and trap to the stone post of the gateway.

"Thank you," she returned, "Mr. Charteris will like to come in, I know. We came to see little Bobbie, and I wanted to give you a pinafore for him, that I have made all myself, after Mrs. Doidge had cut it out."

Bobbie himself, present, but invisible behind his mother's back, was now dragged forward.

"For shame!" Mrs. Boutcher exclaimed, gently shaking him. "Don't you know the young lady what saved you from the very jaws? Say ''Ow do you do?' this moment, and none of your nonsense. He'll understand some day what an obligation he is a-labouring under to you, miss," Mrs. Boutcher hastened to explain apologetically. "At present he is no more grateful nor what he would 'ave been if you'd just let him be."

Hazel had been to see her _protege_ twice before to-day, and found the constant references to what Mrs. Boutcher termed her "'eroism" somewhat embarrassing. Nevertheless, the good woman's conversation caused her much diversion. One singularity of hers was never to mention death by name, though the meaning of the dread word was conveyed to her audience frequently, in all manner of ingeniously wrapped up and elegantly expressed phrases.

Paul came in, and Mrs. Boutcher, with ready hospitality, dusted a second chair and asked him to be seated.

"And if I might make you a cup of tea after your drive, I'm sure I should be honoured," she assured her guests.

She proceeded to bustle about, on hospitality intent, whilst Hazel lost no time in coaxing Bobbie to come to her and try on his new pinafore. She had a way of her own with children. She did not appear to notice the small individual himself, but seemed deeply interested in the toy he held, and begged to look at it more nearly. The boy drew nearer, lost his shyness little by little, and was soon exhibiting his treasure and expounding its many virtues to an apparently absorbed auditor.

"It is wonderful," Hazel commented. "I have something in this parcel besides the pinafore. Come and sit on my knee and see if you can untie the string."

Presently the child was seated in Hazel's lap, contentedly eating chocolates. He was a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed boy, and Hazel felt real affection for the little fellow. Beside her innate love of children, she felt a proprietary interest in Bobbie, whose life she had undoubtedly saved. Mrs. Boutcher regarded the pair with admiration and maternal pride, her head on one side, a steaming kettle in her hand, poised for discharging.

"Look at that, now!" she exclaimed, turning to Paul for sympathy, "and him so shy as he'll run away when the minister shows his face at the door, as if it was the bogeyman's." She approached Paul and lowered her voice. "You'd never guess, not to look at him," she said confidentially, "as it's but three months ago as he was rescued from out the Valley of the Shadow. Dear me," she continued, shaking her head, "yes, it was a mercy--not vouchsafed to all of us neither. There was Mrs. Jones's now--she's moved since, and it's no wonder--her little boy fell into the water, just as it might be my Bobbie, and he crossed the River," she whispered hoarsely.

Paul looked relieved.

"The child could swim? That was fortunate."

"Law bless you, no, sir. Swim? He went down like a stone in the middle of the stream."

"I understood you to say he crossed the river," Paul explained, nonplussed.

"The Jordan, sir," Mrs. Boutcher returned in a hushed voice, somewhat shocked at the practical way in which her guest interpreted her words--it was not clear to her whether in ignorance or wanton inadvertency--"the River as we must all cross some day, to reach the Golden Shore."

Paul nodded comprehendingly.

"Poor little fellow," he murmured.

"You should hear our minister speak, sir," Mrs. Boutcher went on. '"E just draws the tears to your eyes. But you don't attend our chapel?"

"No," Paul admitted, "but Miss Le Mesurier often takes me to church. We have a clever preacher there."

Hazel, catching her name, looked up. "Yes, Mrs. Boutcher," she said, "it is so nice. I used to go very seldom: the boys were often lazy or careless, and sometimes really tired after their week's work. Mother, of course, could not go so far."

Mrs. Boutcher had fervently spread a fair white cloth, and poured out two cups of tea. She now begged her guests to be seated, and whilst they refreshed themselves, she again took up the conversation.

"Our minister," she said solemnly, slowly shaking her head, "surpasses all I ever 'eard in the preaching line. Preach? His father preached afore him, and he has two sons what preach."

"A clever family," Paul commented.

Mrs. Boutcher's feelings did not allow her to find words readily, but presently she wisely gave up endeavouring to express herself, and went on in lighter vein.

"It seems to come to them natural like, the moment they ascend the pulpit. It's just child's play to them, father and sons alike, as it was child's play to the minister's father afore them."

For one brief moment the eyes of Paul and Hazel met, but they very creditably maintained their gravity. Paul wondered what a clever preacher, and a good earnest man to boot, would feel if he could hear the strenuous endeavour, the never-ceasing watching, praying, and battling of his life, pronounced child's play.

Hazel could not let it pass. "Mrs. Boutcher," she said gently, "we surely cannot call the great and good work of clergymen child's play to them. It is his work, is not it? and the cleverer he is the more he is bound to do his utmost, as an artist would, for instance."

Mrs. Boutcher was not convinced. "It may be with some," she admitted, "but it's no work to our minister, Miss. You should hear him--it just flows from him, with no effort on his part."

It began to dawn upon Hazel, that her hostess had not used the term child's play in its usual sense, a suspicion that was confirmed a little later, when the good woman placed a large log upon the fire.

"That is a fine fellow," Paul remarked. "Couldn't I chop him in two for you, Mrs. Boutcher?"

But the hospitable Mrs. Boutcher demurred. "I could not think of troubling you, sir. To be sure, it's a fine log," she agreed, "a regular masterpiece."

Paul and Hazel did not stay long with the Boutchers: they had promised themselves a half hour with the Traverses that afternoon. They set forth again, therefore, so soon as tea was finished, reaching The Beeches within the space of a few minutes.

Hazel breathed again when, on entering the drawing-room, one glance assured her that Digby was absent. There was the usual warm reception: Doris, Phyllis, and Francis, who was present with his mother and sisters, could not do enough for the young couple--surrounding them on all sides, besetting them with questions and attentions. Finally Hazel was ensconced upon the sofa--in the very middle--with cushions at her back, a hassock under her feet, Phyllis and Doris on either side of her, and Francis gracefully reclining on the floor in front of her. Mrs. Travers and Paul were seated together a little apart from this sociable group, but their interest seemed to be with it; the eyes of both were directed upon it and upon the little gracious central figure, and Paul could have embraced his hostess there and then for the affectionate admiration and motherly pride that beamed from her kind eyes.

"I have congratulated you before," she said, turning to him, "many times, but I must do so again. I think you a very fortunate young man, and, if I may say so, I also think you are worthy of your happiness," she added warmly.

"Ah no," disclaimed the devout lover, "who could be that? But I shall never cease to try to be so."

"Do you always do your hair up now?" asked Phyllis of Hazel.

"Always," she replied, "except week-ends, and when I am riding."

"Riding?" Phyllis and Doris exclaimed in unison, breathless with interest. "Oh, do you ride? Who with?"

"With him," Hazel replied, nodding towards Paul, without looking at him. "We go for the most lovely rides--twelve and fifteen miles."

"Oh, how lovely." The breathless auditors were again in unison.

"I wish I was engaged," sighed Phyllis.

The elder sister nudged Hazel to gain her attention. "Try not to appear too happy," she whispered earnestly. "You know the trouble I have with her--how I try to keep her a child."

Hazel nodded sympathetically. "But I am afraid I cannot help it," she whispered back. "I am so happy, you know. What shall I do?" she added helplessly.

"Can't you hint that for many things you are sorry that childhood is over?" suggested the demure maiden, anxiously regarding the fresh, sweet, rosy face, the happy brown eyes.

"But I am not," Hazel replied, bluntly frank.

"Oh, Doris, don't keep Hazel all to yourself," Phyllis exclaimed plaintively. "Hazel, have you got a riding habit?"

"Yes, a lovely one, made by a London tailor. Uncle Percival gave it me--he is always wanting to give me dresses, but mothie does not like him to."

"What colour is it?" Doris asked, interested herself, and deeming her little sister's interest in this subject--and possible envy--legitimate.

"Brown," Hazel made answer--"almost exactly the colour of my horse."

"Your horse?"

"_He_ did," Hazel said, anticipating the question, again nodding in Paul's direction.

"How many hands?" inquired Francis from below. He had never taken his eyes from Hazel's face.

"Sixteen," she answered promptly.

"What breed?" he inquired further.

"Now, Francis," Phyllis said, "don't begin a lot of your tiresome farming questions. Hazel, how brown it must all look! I suppose one can hardly notice whether your hair is down or not. But why do you have it down for week-ends?"

"The boys," Hazel explained laconically. "It entices them to tease and call me names if I have it up. Besides," she added resignedly, "they only take it down, so what is the use?"

"So should I," observed Francis lazily. "I wouldn't have it up now, if I were Charteris."

"But you look so fearfully young," she complained. "And you must remember that I--I am an engaged wo--, that I am engaged, you know," she amended.

"Perhaps I shall be in four or five years' time," Phyllis said, with a little eager bounce of anticipated pleasure. "Oh, I wish the time would come."

"Phyllis!" poor Doris remonstrated, appalled. "Be young while you can, dear," she urged.

"Hazel does not look any the older for it," retorted Phyllis. "Oh, Hazel, do tell us some of his pet names for you."

Hazel gasped and glanced hurriedly at Paul. Paul, who had not caught Phyllis's words, smiled at her and wondered within himself whether he read her glance aright: it seemed to appeal to him for help.

Francis came to the rescue. "Look here, Phyllis," he expostulated, "don't make any more of an _enfant terrible_ of yourself than you need. I say," he continued, tactfully seeking to change the conversation, "how sick Digby will be when he hears that you called."

This announcement effectually turned the current of Hazel's thoughts. She tried to appear properly concerned, but relief and gratitude were all that Francis could read in the look she turned upon him.

Paul somehow contrived to bring Mrs. Travers and himself nearer the sofa, and the conversation became general.

When the adieux were made, Phyllis's contrite look was rewarded by an extra good-bye kiss and a forgiving little squeeze of Hazel's hand.

*CHAPTER XIX*

But that was to befall which gave Hazel cause to wish that Digby Travers had been present, during Paul's and her visit to his father's house. It would have proved uncomfortable, embarrassing, a sore trial of endurance for the moment; but once over, once the inevitable first meeting after the event of the engagement was ended, she could but have felt immensely relieved, albeit her heart would have ached with compassion for the poor young man, if, indeed, she saw reason for such emotion. She was always buoyed with the comfort of that doubt. Perhaps he was no "lover." He and Paul were as the poles asunder; and Hazel could not doubt Paul. Therefore, either Digby was not in love with her, or there were many sorts of lovers and many grades of being in love. Paul seemed to be of a somewhat high grade, she thought.

Hazel was walking through the Hazelhurst woods alone, pondering these matters in her heart. She had set out for an hour's brisk exercise at about three o'clock in the afternoon, intent upon completing a favourite round within the limit of that time, a round that took her across the comparatively open space where she was in the habit of feeding her pets, past the great oak, down many winding paths to the boundary fence, then, turning at right angles, a short way terminating in a hazel copse, and thence home.

She walked rapidly: the early November air was chill and crisp, making quick movement enjoyable and exhilarating. The woods were almost dismantled, but the many trees that were evergreen did not allow their thinness to be very marked, nor their nakedness too pronounced. Everywhere stood clumps of sturdy green that endured through all changes, brave and gravely cheerful, as if possessed of spirit too strong to know airy flights of imagination or mournful droopings of soul. They were never more than gravely cheerful, even in springtime's tremulous joy or summer's triumphant glory: sober enough, indeed, to give one--at such seasons--occasional vague feelings of irritation at their seeming stolidness. But ah! the gratitude with which one gazes upon these reliable, impervious old friends, when all else green in the dear woodlands is shrivelled and dead; whilst the more sensitive trees, that undergo so many phases of experience, are fortifying themselves with the long sleep of winter.