Two days later, at the same hour, Paul Charteris was seated in Helen's drawing-room.
"She is so young," Helen was pleading; "such a child."
Paul sat in silence, big, manly, and troubled withal.
"I feel such an unutterable brute to speak to you about it," he returned at length. "If you knew how I have struggled to keep it to myself; but it is too much, it goes beyond my strength."
He groaned, turning his eyes from the delicate face, in remorse at the conflicting emotions he had raised.
If only Hubert Le Mesurier were alive! There would be nothing about which to hesitate; they would talk as man to man. But the widowed Helen, so gentle, so defenceless, seeking only what was best for her child. What a brute he was! And yet, speak he must: he could no longer contain himself. He knew well enough that the next time he encountered Hazel alone he must demand an explanation of her strange manner towards himself. He felt it was highly improbable he could see Hazel without opening his heart to her. It was but right to warn Helen as to how things stood with him: it had become essential that Helen should be told all there was to tell.
"Paul," she said at last, very gently, "you must go away for a time."
Paul's face grew pale. He regarded her in mute consternation.
"It is for her good," she went on. "Does not that reflection make you willing to go—to bear a few months' banishment?"
Poor Paul, his elbow on his knee, his head in his hand, could only groan aloud.
"Do you mean I am to go, uncertain of my fate, before I speak to her?" he asked; and the pain in his eyes made Helen waver.
"Would it not be harder afterwards?" she asked, seeking to argue with him. "Suppose—mind, I do not know my child's heart towards you, though of this I am sure, that she is fond of you in her innocent, frank way—but suppose she—she gives you permission to stay—how can you go then, Paul?"
"I could go then," he cried vehemently, "far more easily than now, when all is uncertainty and torture. It would be hard; but I could go if need be," he added wistfully, "if you demand such trial of me."
"It is not to try you," she made answer. "It is for Hazel's good, that she may remain settled and undisturbed, that she may have time for reflection and to learn her own mind." She paused. Hazel's voice was heard trilling a light air as she passed through the hall.
"You mean that I may speak?" the young man asked, springing to his feet, an eager flush rising to his face. "She will never learn her own mind toward me if I do not speak—she will never think of me in that way. I should only return to find things as they are. You will let me speak?"
The two regarded one another for some moments—the two beings who, of all the world, loved Hazel best. She, with that wonderful mother-love that denies self, that sacrifices all to the good and the happiness of the child, that asks no return; he, with the strong man's heart-whole devotion, yearning, protecting, longing to have and to hold and to cherish, through all changes, but fiercely demanding love's tribute of love.
Helen sighed softly, and smiled.
"Go, then," she said. "I expect you will find her in the wood. And, Paul, if she does not know herself—if she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not despair. Be hopeful, and leave things to time to put right."
In two strides the young man was beside her. Raising her hand to his lips, he reverently kissed the slender fingers, and without a word turned and left her.
As he walked through the wood, Paul Charteris soon descried the girl's form, flitting now here now there, now eluding his sight like some will-o'-the-wisp, strayed far from home during the night, and thus overtaken by day—a will-o'-the-wisp made visible to the eye now that its light was extinguished, or, rather, absorbed by the sunshine. Of a sudden he came upon her. She was standing in the middle of the clear space that commended itself to the purpose in hand: she was feeding her pets, dispensing crumbs of bread and cake around her. A ringdove cooed upon her shoulder, whilst a pair of squirrels frisked about her feet.
"What a little witch she is!" Paul mused as he watched, himself unseen.
He tried to call "Hazel," but throat and tongue refused their office. Instead, he advanced and discovered himself.
Hazel nodded to him brightly.
"Did you come to see them fed?" she asked. "Are they not fascinating?"
"I came to see you," he made answer. "Hazel, I have something very special to say. Will you listen?"
Hazel looked about her, the brightness dying from her face. There was no escaping him now. The most direct path to the house he himself blocked. If she turned down a by-way he would but follow.
"Will you listen, Hazel?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said, reluctant, half defiant. "Tell me now, whilst I feed the birds," she added imperiously.
"No," Paul rejoined stoutly, "it is much too important and—and serious. I will wait till you have finished."
Although the girl had practically completed her task when he came upon her, the last few crumbs were scattered, one by one, from the small yet seemingly inexhaustible stock still left. And then, when he thought the time had come, when all seemed ready, Hazel sought to fix his attention upon a hundred-and-one different objects—this plant, that tree, the brightness of a pet squirrel's eyes, the bushiness of another's tail, the soft grey plumage of the wood pigeon. Would Paul like one on his shoulder? She believed she could coax it there. Paul was soon nearly frantic, fearful of offending or scaring her, divided between risking the one or the other, torn with indecision, yet determined throughout not to let so fitting an opportunity slip by ungrasped. Hazel had no faintest clue as to how he was minded: she only knew that he was grave again, and, though she had not so much as given one glance at his face, she knew his eyes to be serious and deep and unfathomable. In a word, he was in that tiresome mood that somehow troubled her. She must divert his attention from herself, she must distract his mind with all manner of interests; and these the wood amply afforded.
"Look at that green caterpillar," she exclaimed. "We might——"
"Hazel," Paul said desperately, interrupting her, "will you listen? It is so important—to me."
"You said 'serious' before," Hazel rejoined, a trifle flippantly. Her back was turned upon him. She began busily to collect fir-cones.
"I want to tell you that I love you," the young man said at last, simply and quietly. "I love you, Hazel."
"Thank you," Hazel said in polite good faith, half turning a flushed cheek toward him. "It is—it is very good of you. But if you don't mind, try not to feel serious about it. Of course I like to hear you say it—just once; but I knew it, I—I mean I always felt you were fond of me."
"Child, child," Paul murmured. Then aloud: "Are you fond of me?"
"Oh yes," she answered frankly. "You know I am. But it is not a very usual thing to ask a lady," she added reprovingly. "Teddie says you have to guess at a lady's feelings. By the way, have you had tea?"
Despite his emotion, a smile of genuine amusement, mingled with exquisite tenderness, played about Paul's mouth as his eyes dwelt upon the little kneeling figure, so determinedly turned from him. He must try again. He did not want to startle her, he must endeavour to make his meaning dawn slowly upon her mind; and when he had achieved this, what, ah what would her answer be! Had the girl's feelings toward him only to be awakened? Was love dormant? Or—unspeakable anguish was in the thought—was there no love within her breast for him? He must know—he must know: the pain of uncertainty was becoming more than he could bear. He recalled Helen's words and found comfort in them. "If she does not know herself, if she cannot answer you now as you would wish, do not despair, be hopeful, and leave things to time to put right."
"Hazel," he said gently, "I am so anxious. I should be so grateful to you if you would stand up and—and give me your undivided attention, just for two minutes."
The girl complied, reluctant, wondering, half uneasy at the appeal in his voice, half curious. She stood before him with folded hands and waited.
Paul came a step nearer. "Hazel, it is a usual question to ask, when a man loves a girl as I love you, with all his heart, with all his soul; when he feels he must have her love, or live without it in misery all his days. Then he must ask her if she could ever love him."
For the first time Hazel looked up in his face, her own paling.
"Is this—is this a proposal?" she asked, awe and solemnity widening and darkening her eyes. "Do you mean—you want me to—to actually marry you?"
Paul's lips twitched at the corners. "Yes," he said stoutly. "Tell me—tell me that you will."
There was a pause, passed in agony by Paul, in amazed reflection by Hazel.
"Child, answer me," he said at length hoarsely, possessing himself of her hands.
"I might, after years and years," she said consideringly. "But, Mr. Charteris, I never dreamed you were a—that you felt like that. You are not at all a usual sort." Her mind had reverted to Digby Travers, his looks, his sighs, his serenades. How troublesome he was to manage; how he would always try to get her to himself, when she was longing for the society of others; how he would hold her hand too long at every possible opportunity. That was the lover one read of in stories, one saw depicted in pictures. But—but she began to acknowledge to herself that it was possible that here was a "real one" of another type; his face, his eyes all strenuous, all—all. And he had this in common with the lover of her ideas: he held her hands—both! as if he would never let them go.
Hazel tried to free her hands.
"Yes," said Paul, "when you have told me that you love me."
Silence fell between them.
"If I say I do," Hazel asked slowly, weighing her words, "does it mean I must—does it mean I have got to marry you?"
"It would mean that some day you might love me enough to like to marry me," Paul answered boldly and simply. "But never mind that now, Hazel. Just tell me whether you love me, even—even a little, and I will wait so patiently for that little to grow."
Again she fell to reflecting. "I am fond of you," she said earnestly, "and, yes, perhaps you could call it—call it—just a very little, you know. But I don't know why you need ask me," she said resentfully; "and now will you please let go my hands?"
"Then you care for me—a little?" the young man asked joyfully.
"Yes," Hazel returned with gracious dignity, then, timidly, half in exultation, half in fear, "Am I an engaged woman now?" she asked.
"If you will accept me as your lover, yes," Paul answered. He was all aglow with happiness. It is true that she was timid, shrinking, only now half conscious of what he meant, of what he offered. Yet through it all, nay, because of that very timidity, he felt that she cared for him—a little, and a great yearning filled his soul to make that little much. As yet he must be content that she had not repelled him; for, child as she was, Paul felt assured that the sweet, strong woman-being within her would have rejected his love with none of the uncertainty with which she had half accepted it; would have rejected it finally and with decision—for the time being, at all events. How utterly adorable she was, this queen among girls, this innocent, but half awake, maiden! How could he ever deserve her—how make himself worthy? What an inestimable privilege was his: to teach her love. An intense, an infinite tenderness was astir in the young fellow's strong, manly nature. Ah, how patient, how gentle he must be! Nor could he ever be patient and gentle enough. He would bear that in mind, always.
"Hazel, my little love," he murmured. "Look in my eyes and tell me once more that you love me—a little. Say: 'Paul, I love you, and presently I shall love you more.'"
Hazel raised her eyes obediently, but only to his collar stud. "I—I love you a little," she stammered.
"You won't look at me?" he pleaded.
"I am looking, hard," she averred, blinking at his chin.
"And you won't say, 'Paul'?"
"It would be too silly," she objected, "when you are here, attending to me."
He longed to seal the compact between them with a kiss, a solemn, sacred kiss; but he felt the time was not yet. She had given him so much! Just now he must not ask for more. He must respect her sweet delicacy; he must not dismay or trouble her. He would be patient, gentle, all unselfish. In this wise he might grow to be worthy of her love, and, worthy, might gain it.