Part 8

Despite the foreign notions laid to his charge, the young man's sense of the fitness of things kept him from standing long under one window in particular, even while the beauty of the flowering shrub beneath the guest-chamber gave excuse for a somewhat lingering gait in passing; so that it was only now and again that Hazel caught a connected line or two of the impassioned refrain; while his sisters, not to mention his father and mother, were regaled with a goodly, if not quite with an even share, till Francis thrust a betousled head from his window and asked his brother to "stow it," a request which caused the disconsolate Digby to wander farther from the house, and to break into fresh melody among the trees that skirted the lawn.

Hazel had unexpected good fortune, in that the morning was passed in almost uninterrupted silence; for, breakfast over, Mr. Travers and his sons furnished themselves with fishing-tackle and, begging the girls to join the expedition and witness sport, the party made their way down to the river side and were soon ranged along its near bank. Hazel was not long in seizing the opportunity thus offered, and was soon lost in her own reflections.

Her mind was quieter now than last night, when, in the first hours of possessing the exciting idea of a scheme of action so congenial to her, all had been pleasurable turmoil. Now she could think more connectedly, could shape her thoughts to some end. She wisely resolved to leave style alone--at all events at first--until she had ascertained for a fact that the style which came naturally to her was poor. She would be careful concerning grammar, but she had always detested the sight of the outside cover of books upon the subject, and so far as she could remember, had never opened one.

She set up an imaginary stage in her mind, bringing her characters one by one to bow before her, and to ask modestly whether they would please her; what relations they were to bear one to another; what influence life upon life. Then the grouping must be pleasingly harmonious or disturbingly discordant: there must be nothing tame nor indifferent about her work.

"We need not be so absolutely dumb," Digby Travers murmured, and Hazel awoke with a start. "I'd rather lose all the fish, if catching it can only be accomplished by not talking to you, or not hearing you talk."

"Hush," Hazel rejoined. "The others don't feel like that, and besides," she added truthfully, "I want to think."

"Oh, well," the young man returned, in a somewhat injured tone, "that is another thing, of course"; and he continued his occupation in gloomy silence, the while Hazel resumed her thread of cogitation. Presently she began to realise that she must be simpler and more methodical in her ideas--less profound. After all, she was not undertaking the writing of a book. Let her conjure up some pretty little story, and write it carefully and faithfully--perhaps the pathos and the humour would take care of themselves.

That night, in the seclusion of her own room, she set to work, in a fever of energy and fervent purpose. She had gone upstairs at ten, but it was nigh upon one o'clock when the girl at length extinguished her light and laid her down to rest. Even then sleep did not come to her quickly, for her brain was thoroughly roused and excited.

Three evenings devoted to this work sufficed to complete her story, and on the fourth, after carefully revising her work, she proceeded to write it out neatly, and the result of her labour was to her own entire satisfaction.

Anticipating the certainty of having all in readiness before she slept, she had, during the day, addressed a letter to Teddie asking him to meet her in town next morning, which epistle she directed to his lodging; for she felt the urgency of completing all such arrangements from her friends' house, wishing as she did to keep all secret until such time as she could ask for sympathy in her disappointment, or for congratulations in her success.

She had little difficulty in gaining the consent of Mrs. Travers to this expedition. She did not deem it necessary to take her kind hostess wholly into her confidence: Mrs. Travers was satisfied with the girl's assurance that her mother would not object to what she was about to do, provided Teddie was with her, and good-naturedly acquiesced in her entreaty that she might be allowed to keep her little secret from every one but the brother, whose aid was essential in the completion of her business.

The following day, immediately after the morning meal, hugging her precious manuscript, she was driven to the station in the company of the four young Traverses, all of whom warmly insisted upon seeing her off. The frame of mind into which these four friends had been thrown, owing to her unwonted demeanour and most mysterious silence concerning this expedition, may be easily imagined. Doris and Phyllis were openly and frankly curious, with that feminine curiosity that knows no concealment; nor did they cease in their endeavours to worm Hazel's secret from her, resorting at length to stratagem, in the hope that the girl, if caught for a moment off her guard, might yet be led into revealing the cause of her mission.

"Teddie will meet this train," was all she would say, "and perhaps you will be kind enough to meet the one arriving here at 3.50," and she turned to the taciturn Digby.

Digby Travers was much more to be pitied than either his sisters or Francis: the latter being genuinely amused, and inclined to chaff Hazel, nor was he troubled one whit with the restless curiosity that beset the girls, or the sense of grievance that lurked in the bosom of his brother. For Digby felt himself to be deeply injured. It is true that he had not, like the others, deliberately asked Hazel to tell him her reason for running up to town: he would not urge her to confide in him, but he was hurt that she did not volunteer the explanation of her movements, at all events to him, even if she wished the matter to remain secret from the others. Hazel was partially aware of the state of his feelings, and looked to see him brighten at her proposal, but the gloom did not lift from Digby's countenance.

"As you like," he made answer, with would-be nonchalance. "Either I or Francis--or the man, if we are prevented."

And then Hazel's eyes were opened, figuratively and actually, and she gazed upon him for some moments in mute wonder and some little distress. While he spoke and acted like the Digby she had known so long, her suspicions were not aroused, her mind being fully occupied with managing him--smoothing the little difficulties that his importunities caused her, keeping him at arm's length instinctively, all unconscious that she was doing so, or that there was any need to do so. But now the situation began to dawn upon her. While he remained attentive to all her little needs and wishes, displaying an odd admixture of slavish devotion and proprietary authority, such as had characterised his attitude towards her so long as she could remember--for even the rough schoolboy had lorded it over the very small maiden--she had taken it all as a matter of course--as Digby's "way." For tenderness, shame-faced at first, had crept in so imperceptibly, so gradually supplanting the old rough-and-ready affection; and the old boyish, somewhat overbearing and dictatorial manner had by such gentle degrees given place to another sort of proprietariness, that these things seemed to have grown with his growth; and the girl, beyond an occasional sense of annoyance at such times, when Digby appeared rather trying and more difficult to manage than of yore, had never given the matter a second thought. But now, with this abrupt change of front, this veering round, so to say, from eager and solicitous attention to a poorly assumed indifference, manifestly born of a certain recklessness and of deeply felt resentment against herself, a horrible suggestion presented itself to the girl's mind, and she looked at Digby Travers in wide-eyed dismay.

"I believe he is beginning to be a sort of lover," she said to herself, and her heart beat a little faster.

She reflected upon this new problem at her ease, after she had been safely bestowed in a first-class compartment with ladies, of whom Digby had inquired their destination, committing Hazel to their charge.

Many little incidents recurred to her mind, that had puzzled her at the time, but now seemed to explain themselves with unmistakable conviction.

"He must not be allowed to propose," for, strange and bewildering as it seemed to the girl, yet, assuming him to be a lover, that was the young man's end and aim--"to propose: it would be too terrible." Besides, he had no right to do so; Hazel must save him from himself--he was deceiving himself: he was not a proper lover, a real lover. It was too absurd. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. Intuitively her thoughts turned to Paul for help. The next moment the girl had shrunk within herself--her face aflame. The only place in the whole world that presented itself to her imagination was her mother's shoulder; but she was all unconscious that it was from Paul she desired to hide her face.

Presently she grew more collected, and took herself to task. She told herself that all her good sense and wisest judgment must be brought to bear upon the subject. She did not think she should trouble her mother: she might conceivably confide in Teddie, if she found it expedient to do so, but certainly, oh certainly, in no one else. And perhaps, after all, she could manage unaided; perhaps some coldly proffered hints would bring Digby to his senses. Even now she believed she must be mistaken--it was so preposterous, this new idea.

In the meantime she must set herself resolutely to put the thing out of her mind. Only so could she attend properly to the business in hand. She unfolded the manuscript, re-read it, and found that she was still satisfied with it, although the details of the story began to pall a little, as was natural.

As she finished reviewing the precious document the train drew up in Paddington Station, and there upon the platform, trying hard not to look interested, stood Teddie.

Hazel's eyes lighted on him instantly. Eagerly, almost tremulously, she once more unfolded the manuscript, and, springing from the carriage, ran to his side.

"It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'" she announced breathlessly to her astonished brother, and forthwith began to read.

"What is?" Teddie asked, bluntly interrupting her.

"Why, the story," she answered, for the moment confounded by her auditor's lack of sympathy and appreciation. "Didn't you know? I have written a story," and she was about to proceed with the narrative, when he again interposed.

"I know nothing," he said with an injured air, "but that you wanted me to meet this train, and did not give me time to say I could not; it was dashed inconvenient, I can tell you."

For a moment the girl's ardour was damped.

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, "but I wanted to take it at once to an editor. I had to be quick, while I was at the Traverses, as I could not take it from home without confiding in mother, and it is a surprise for her."

Her bright face clouded, and she regarded her brother wistfully. "Is it very inconvenient?" she asked.

Teddie's generous young heart was touched. "Oh, it is all right," he answered gruffly. "Let us hear it."

Hazel, nothing loth, began once more as the two strolled down the platform, hardly pausing, in her absorbed interest, as she handed her ticket to the amused collector.

Teddie, though gradually becoming fired with something of her enthusiasm, was hardly yet so engrossed but that he had sufficient sense left of his surroundings to be aware of the unsuitability of the place for either reading aloud or listening. He therefore guided the unconscious girl, without again interrupting her, to a waiting-room, which he noted with satisfaction was empty. Here the two ensconced themselves, and Hazel read on to the finish, Teddie hearkening with all his ears; nor did he once remove his eyes from her face, where a bright spot of colour, born of excitement, was glowing on either cheek.

"That is the end," she announced triumphantly. "What do you think of it?"

"Jolly good," Teddie declared with gratifying warmth. "Come on," he added, springing to his feet; "let us get a cab."

"A cab? Oh, Teddie, ought we to?" she asked timorously. "What made you think of it?"

For all answer Teddie led the way from the station, hailed a passing hansom, and helped her into it.

"Don't you see?" he explained presently, after directing the man through the trap. "Don't you see that the story will pay you again and again for a cab?"

And as they bowled along in silent enjoyment, Hazel could not but marvel upon the rapidity of the change that prosperity, through authorship, had wrought upon her life.

"Who are we taking it to?" she asked presently.

"A fellow I know of," Teddie replied. "Or rather, two fellows, Langham and Fielding. A friend of mine got a story taken by them not half so good as this."

"I am glad I asked you to help me," Hazel returned gratefully. "I only hope it won't matter very much taking you from your work, you know."

"Say no more about that," Teddie responded complacently. "It was a bit awkward, but how was I to know that it was all for such a good purpose? Here we are," he added, as the cab drew up before a building, and Hazel, timidly lifting her eyes, read in gold letters upon the window-pane, "Messrs. Langham & Fielding, Publishers."

They entered the building, and found themselves in a large, bare place that looked to their inexperienced eyes to be a combination of book-warehouse, office, and shop, for new books were stacked upon shelves all round the apartment; parcels of all sizes were piled upon the floor, among which, in an adjacent corner, a man in a leather apron was busy sorting. Some clerkly looking young men sat or stood at high desks, whilst a long counter ran down the room, rather to one side, which an office-lad seemed to be engaged in polishing.

A fellow-feeling for the clerks, a wish not to disturb them in their arduous tasks, made Teddie Le Mesurier turn to the boy.

"This lady," he said, intimating Hazel, who trembled slightly, "wishes to see one of your principals--the editor of the ---- Magazine, if possible."

"Who is it from?" inquired the office-boy mechanically, as, without a vestige of expression, his gaze seemed to fix itself on Teddie's left ear.

Hazel looked blank. "Who is it from?" she reiterated, at a loss.

"Now look here," said Teddie angrily, "none of your office gibberish. Just take up my card and say----"

At this juncture a pleasant-faced clerk stepped forward. "Get back to your work, Tommie," he said briskly, and he turned to the pair. "What can I do for you?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

Teddie repeated his formula and handed the young man his card. "We are on the lady's errand," he explained, "but she has no card," and Hazel felt mortified, she scarcely knew why; but it seemed so terribly young not to possess cards, although she had never before felt the lack.

"Is it an appointment?" asked the clerk. "Will your business be known?"

"No," Teddie returned stoutly, "but there must be a beginning, you know. We wish to submit a manuscript."

The young man left them, to reappear in a few moments.

"The editor will see you at once," he informed them. "Please step this way."

He led them up a flight of stairs, and, showing them into a room, closed the door behind them. It was large and comfortably furnished, with more of the private library than office about it. The only occupant, a tall, good-looking man, of some fifty years of age, rose to receive them, tendering Hazel a chair near his own desk, the while Teddie seated himself somewhat in the background.

"I wish to submit a manuscript which I think you will find very suitable for the ---- Magazine," Hazel began, with an easy confidence and graciousness of manner that generally proved very pleasing from the little lady. "Are you Mr. Langham or Mr. Fielding?"

"My name is Charles Langham," he answered, bowing, a slight smile relaxing his somewhat grave features. "It is a short story, I presume?"

"Yes," Hazel returned. "My brother Edward," intimating Teddie, who looked very much at home, sitting well forward in his chair, his stick between his knees, his chin resting upon its knob, "has known you to take a story, not nearly so good, he says."

"Not half, by Jove!" put in Teddie.

"You would not like to read it now?" suggested Hazel. "It would not take you long."

"I think not," Mr. Langham replied. "You see, that is not our usual way; but if you will leave it with me, I will place it in the hands of our reader, who will give me his report."

"Yes, I see," Hazel said, a trifle disappointed.

"You don't think you could make a concession for once?" asked Teddie.

"I think not," Mr. Langham repeated, pulling at his moustache. "It would be very irregular."

"Of course," responded Teddie politely. "You see, Hazel, that is what readers are for: to save the editors the trouble and loss of time incurred in reading a lot of unacceptable rubbish."

"And Mr. Langham cannot know that mine is not rubbish," Hazel rejoined, wishing to be reasonable. "It is called 'The Victoria Cross, and How it was Won,'" she continued, turning to the editor. "The hero goes to the front, and there is a tremendous battle, which I think I have succeeded in making very realistic."

"Stunning," put in Teddie.

"And then," she resumed, waxing eloquent in her theme, "afterwards, upon the battlefield, when he is lying wounded in the moonlight, a fearful vision rises before his eyes."

"Blood-curdling," remarked Teddie, _sotto voce_.

"But it is only his delirium that distorts things and makes them fearful. In reality it is his mother."

Mr. Langham did his utmost to appear properly interested, and endeavoured to keep his countenance, wherein he was only partially successful. It was a delightful pair, he thought: this handsome young fellow and lovely, dainty girl. And, busy as he was, he made no move to hurry Hazel. The girl's spontaneity was refreshing, her ardour and evident good faith in her attempt at authorship were touching to a man of his sympathetic and benevolent nature. He was quite anxious not to precipitate their departure by word or sign.

"I know I must not keep you," Hazel concluded, rising from her seat; "but you will be glad to hear that it all ends peacefully and happily, and his great bravery is fully recognised."

"That is very satisfactory," Mr. Langham returned, rising also. "Stories should always end happily, I think."

"I think so, too," Hazel returned. "Good-bye," she added, giving him her hand. "I hope we have not kept you too long."

Mr. Langham released the hand with something of reluctance, and preceded his visitors to the door. He shook hands with Teddie, and was somewhat astonished at the warmth of the young man's grasp.

"Yes," Teddie agreed, "I hope we have not kept you too long." And the pair passed out.

"Do you know"--and Hazel's head reappeared as Mr. Langham was about to close the door--"do you know, before I saw you," she said laughing, "I had quite made up my mind not to speak at all--except, of course, to answer any questions you might put to me. I thought it would be the business-like, correct way; and, besides, I had a sort of notion that editors were rather terrible--as a class," she added hastily, fearful of wounding the sensibility of the editor in question. "Even now I cannot help thinking you are an exception. Good-bye." And she was gone.

Charles Langham, this exception to his kind, stood listening to the sound of their dying footsteps, then turned to his interrupted work with a smile and a sigh.

"And now," said Teddie, looking at his watch, "I must take you back to the station and get on to the office."

Hazel had intended to spend the whole morning with her brother, and probably lunch with him, before she returned to the Traverses: hence her injunctions to Digby to meet her, or cause her to be met, by the 3.50 train. She was, therefore, disappointed; but of this she would let nothing appear. Teddie had already given enough, and too much, of his time at so short a notice.

"Very well," she said cheerfully. "And Teddie--I know it is all right--I shall get the money for my story in time--but, as we have not got it yet, had not it perhaps better be an omnibus?"

To this economical arrangement Teddie--himself less glowingly optimistic than he had been a short while since--agreed. At the station they found, somewhat to their dismay, that there was no train for a couple of hours or so--it was now but little past eleven.

Teddie considered the situation. "Well," he said, "you won't get home till past two o'clock. I had better get you some buns and leave you in the waiting-room. I am awfully sorry, but it cannot be helped. Do you think you will be all right?"

"Perfectly," Hazel returned brightly.

Teddie left her, to return a few minutes later armed with a magazine, and a paper bag containing twelve halfpenny buns.

Left to herself, Hazel began to read; but her mind being preoccupied, she found the stories and jokes uninteresting, and presently fell a-thinking. Was it not near here that her mother's uncle, Percival Desborough, lived? Why should she not utilise the time that must perforce elapse before she could embark upon her return journey by visiting him? Something within her urged her to go, though the prospect was somewhat terrifying. She had heard so much of this uncle's hardness of heart and violence of temper. Poor, lonely old man! how many a time had she wished to see him and judge for herself if he were so hopelessly unamiable and unapproachable as all who knew him averred--all but her mother, who had never lost the belief that there was a soft spot somewhere in the poor, selfish old man's heart.

She had plenty of time, for it would be just as well to take the train by which the Traverses would expect her to arrive--the one after that which Teddie had supposed she would take.

Setting indecision aside, Hazel seized the bag of buns and left the station. Following the direction of a policeman, and later of a friendly inclined milkman, she found the house easily, and, though her hand trembled a little, she beat a brave tattoo upon the door. Her knock was answered by an imposing footman, who appeared to do his utmost not to show surprise at sight of Hazel.

"Is my uncle, Mr. Percival Desborough, at home?" she inquired, in as steady a voice as she could command.

The servant answered in the affirmative, and Hazel walked in. A few moments later she heard herself announced, slowly, distinctly, and most unmistakably: "Miss Le Mesurier!"

*CHAPTER X*