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.
Hazel was grateful to the evergreens now, as she sped along, throwing them many and admiring glances, vividly realising their sterling qualities. She was just emerging from the hazel copse, all aglow with exercise, when a shadow fell across her path, and Digby Travers spoke her name.
"At last," he said, "and alone."
Hazel's presence of mind did not desert her.
"Why, Digby!" she exclaimed, "how did you know I was here?"
"It was rather early for calling when I arrived," he answered, somewhat wearily, "so I strolled about in the woods; and presently I caught sight of your scarlet coat through the trees."
It had been but one o'clock when the poor young man reached Hazelhurst, and for two hours and more he had been roaming the woods.
"How dull you must have found it," she returned, a trifle puzzled. "You ought to have gone straight to the house. Being early does not matter with informal old friends. Come with me now and have tea."
She was concerned for him: he was pale and haggard, but she dared not express her sympathy too openly, and tried to appear brisk and matter-of-fact.
"Tired!" echoed Digby Travers, in a somewhat hollow tone. "If that were all!"
"You are not ill?" she asked quickly, in alarm.
"I wish I were," he answered, with a short, mirthless laugh. "I am sick to death of living; but no, I am not ill in the ordinary sense of the word. I am fortunate to have met you," he continued. "I have longed and yearned to see you alone, if only for a few minutes, to satisfy myself with my own eyes that you were happy."
It was not quite clear to Hazel why he must see her alone to ascertain that fact, but she did not care to question him upon so delicate a point.
"Are you happy?" he asked, as she continued silent.
"Oh yes, very, thank you!" she assured him fervently.
But the assurance did not seem to gladden him.
"So I hoped and supposed," he rejoined, with increased gloom. "And that being so," he added, after a pause, "what does one crushed spirit matter?"
"Do you mean yours?" asked Hazel blankly.
"I don't blame you," he went on, evading the question. "From the first you tried to show me that my attentions were unwelcome, and I am a fool not to have overcome my feelings long ago."
His words could leave no doubt in Hazel's mind. He certainly was, or had been, in love. She was at a loss what to say to him, but she was, nevertheless, profoundly pitiful, for occasional glimpses of understanding were beginning to come to her; brief glimpses of slow-dawning light, that grew grey again before any vivid pitch was reached, were now and again permitted her youthful mind and tender sensibilities, rendering her capable of a depth of compassion toward the poor young man, that would surely have brought comfort to him, had she but expressed something of what she felt. And, all unknown to herself, it was Paul's influence and Paul's teaching that were thus awakening her woman's heart.
"I am dreadfully sorry if I have crushed your spirit," she said at length; "I never meant to. I cannot quite imagine how it has come about. You have always had me for a friend, and you have me still. Now you have another friend in him, haven't you?" she added, seeking to cheer him.
Digby groaned. Now indeed was he convinced that his suit was hopeless. Il she had spoken of "Mr. Charteris," or even of "Paul," it might conceivably mean that she had yet to learn her own mind; but when a girl alludes to "him" simply, that girl was lost for ever to Digby Travers.
"You like him, don't you?" Hazel pursued, slightly startled at the reception that met her question.
"Oh yes, well enough, that is, very much," poor Digby stammered, writhing under her innocent and puzzled look. He could not, in justice to Paul, feel that the girl's heart had been stolen from him, for he knew he had never for one moment possessed it. Yet there was always the possibility that she might ultimately have grown to love him, if Paul Charteris had not come between them. And now he was asked to look upon "him" as a friend!
"Then try to be happy," Hazel said persuasively, giving him her hand, "and don't feel crushed any more. You shall—shall stay with us, you know, often, and we will all be such friends. Still, of course, that will not be for years yet," she added, blushing.
But this was too much for his fortitude. He dropped Hazel's hand, and, turning very pale, he walked a few steps unsteadily, leaned against a tree as if for support, and, sinking his head upon his arm, stood motionless, save for the laboured heaving of his breast. Hazel hovered about him in greatest distress.
"Digby, Digby," she cried, "I never thought you would mind so much. You shall see a good deal of me; you shall indeed. I will ask him—I will ask him if he would mind your living with us, if that would comfort you," she added desperately. "But you must wait. We don't want to—we don't want to do it yet for years."
"Hazel," Digby answered, speaking in short, panting breaths, "you don't know what you are saying. How should you? You are only a child. But for God's sake, don't tantalise a poor wretch like me with such cruel words."
"Cruel?" poor Hazel exclaimed, with a sob. "When I am thinking all the time of what I can do and say and promise to comfort you! What can you mean, Digby? And a child indeed! Me a child!"
Digby raised his head, and regarded her with haggard eyes. A very tender smile played over his drawn features. He seemed suddenly to have become a grave and thoughtful man—ten years older than the Digby she had known but a few months since.
"Yes," he said, quietly persistent, setting his back to the tree, and folding his arms upon his breast, "a child, a sweet, kind, impulsive, gentle little girl; and as such you are distractingly adorable. Well"—he straightened himself and advanced a few paces—"God make the man of your choice worthy of you, and capable of loving you as I would have loved you."
"I did not exactly choose him," Hazel said quickly, seeking to justify herself in Digby's eyes, "he—he chose me. Not but that I like being engaged to him very much," she added hastily, fearful lest he should misunderstand her.
But Digby understood her better than she understood herself. He read the new happiness in her face aright—the shy and almost tender light in her eyes when she spoke of Paul. And he envied Paul, as he had envied no man yet, the hour to come when the realisation of her love for him should dawn and break over her soul. He smiled again, a brave smile, and held out his hand.
"Good-bye," he said, making a resolute effort to compose himself. "You are just home: I will leave you here."
"You won't come in?" she asked piteously, holding him fast.
"No," he said; "I could not face the others to-day. And don't let me feel I have been a brute and distressed you. I shall get over it some day—and——"
"Do you think you will soon?" Hazel asked eagerly, raising tearful eyes to his face.
"Perhaps quite soon," he returned cheerfully, with a slight gulp. "And then, as you say, we shall all be friends. Good-bye." He wrung her hand and walked abruptly away.
Hazel was not to be deceived by this sudden assumption of lightheartedness. She stood for a few moments looking after him. He did not look back—never even halted in his walk, but kept straight on, turned a bend in the path and was gone.
She walked slowly through the flower garden, and, blinded by tears, went stumbling up the steps, and would have fallen over the threshold if she had not, instead, fallen into Paul's arms, outstretched to receive her. And there she remained passive, like a wounded bird, fluttered home. Paul found the situation too blissful to risk the result of speaking for the moment. But Hazel had no intention of moving just yet. The breast of that tweed coat, now that she was shut in before any alternative had been given her, was a very convenient place, safe from his scrutiny; she was conscious of a sense of comfort that began to steal over her, and was vaguely surprised to find how very pleasant it was, to have strong protecting arms about her, just when she was feeling weak and helpless and sad.
He knew that she was crying, for he had seen her face as she came up the steps. He tried to obtain a glimpse of it now, but she kept it hidden in his coat. He gently removed the red cap, and softly kissed the tumbled hair. He must know what it was that troubled her. So, tightening his hold, he asked her gently what the matter was.
"It is Digby," she answered, suppressing a rising sob. "It is all dreadfully complicated. He is very unhappy at my being engaged to you. It—it seems that he wanted me himself."
Paul smiled broadly. The next moment he was grave enough.
"What right had he to say such things to you—now? I must ask him to explain himself," he rejoined.
Hazel could divine from the energy with which he spoke that Paul was angry.
"If you want to fight," she said, a little nervous tremor running through her, "you will have to wait. He is too weak just now, he—he had to lean against a tree to talk. But oh, you would not be so unkind, would you? He is so unhappy," she added beseechingly.
"No, no," Paul hastened to reassure her. "I don't want to fight the poor fellow. But he ought to have been man enough not to have troubled you, Hazel."
"He was so unreasonable," she went on. "I tried to comfort him, and he told me not to tantalise him with cruel words—cruel he called them."
Hazel raised her head a moment in order to see what Paul thought of such perverseness. Paul, who made a very shrewd guess at the nature of Hazel's "comforting," hurriedly raised his hand and stroked his moustache. Hazel's head hastily resumed its former position, after one brief glance.
"But he was very manly," she pursued earnestly, anxious to do poor Digby justice. "I have never known him so—so nice as he was just at the end. He—he said he should get over it soon," she added, more cheerfully, "but—but he does not seem to want to live with us."
"What?" Paul cried, with such vehemence that Hazel jumped. "What?"
"He seemed so fond of me," Hazel explained modestly. "So I said, if he liked I would ask you if you would mind his living with us—in after-years, you know. I am sure I did not want him," she added plaintively.
"Hazel," Paul said, gently bantering, "I begin to see that to the seclusion of your life alone is owed the fact that our future home will not be overrun by disappointed swains."
By this time Hazel was so far recovered as to be able to emerge from her place of hiding. As she sought to release herself from the enfolding arms, Paul bent his head and looked tenderly into her flushed, tear-stained face.
"Little one," he whispered, "may I, just for once, kiss away those last tears from your eyes?"
"Oh no, thank you," she said hastily, somewhat frightened at the suggestion. She proceeded energetically to dab her eyes, in order to remove all temptation, and, making a more determined effort, succeeded in freeing herself, Paul most reluctantly releasing her.
He opened the inner door of the hall. As Hazel entered, her eyes fell upon Hugh's back, or, rather, upon the back of an easy-chair, above which the top of Hugh's head was revealed. A fire blazed and crackled on the hall hearth, and the young man was enjoying its warmth, very much at his ease. He and Paul had been up to town that morning, the former to see his uncle; and, returning to Hazelhurst together, Hugh had soon settled himself to marvel over the restlessness of a lover in the absence of his beloved; whilst Paul, learning from Miles that Hazel was out walking, had taken up his position on the threshold, impatient for her coming, yet afraid to venture forth, not knowing by which way she would come.
Hugh did not look round on their entrance: hearing Paul's voice, he at once concluded that Hazel had returned. Hazel made her escape upstairs to bathe her eyes. After succeeding in removing all traces of her late emotion, she entered Helen's room to propose that her mother should come with her and hear the result of Hugh's visit to their uncle. Helen readily consented. They were all much interested concerning Hugh's future prospects. As for Paul Charteris, he was relieved as well as interested; for the farce of Hugh as secretary was apparently about to terminate most agreeably—a circumstance almost as pleasing to his employer as to Hugh himself. He was to study art for a time, and if he fulfilled the hopes his uncle had been led to entertain of him, he was to be provided with a studio of his own, and started in life.
"Don't you trouble about finishing up work at my place, old fellow," Paul said to him. "You will like some time off, before beginning the new work."
Hugh readily acquiesced. "All right. I do feel the need of a bit of a holiday," he admitted.
"So do I, by Jove," Teddie observed. He and Gerald, noiselessly opening the inner door, had overheard Hugh's remark. "Hullo, Mrs. Char—! Hullo, Charteris, I did not see you."
The two proceeded to place hats, coats, and portmanteaux aside, whilst the group about the hearth pushed their chairs farther back, at once enlarging the circle and inviting the new-comers within its hospitable radius.
"If I had not completely forgotten it was Saturday!" Hugh commented, regarding his brothers something patronisingly, as one to whom all days in the week were alike, so far as momentous settings forth and comings in were concerned. For was not Hugh a gentleman at large?
Gerald and Teddie did not take possession of the two vacant chairs that Hazel—who had not forgotten to expect them—had been careful to provide, preferring to seat themselves upon the rug and support their backs against mother and sister, in such pose as should render the stroking of the two curly heads a natural and easy occupation.
When Hugh's affair had been thoroughly discussed, Helen produced two letters from her absent sons, Guy and Cecil, each announcing his intention of being home for Christmas. Further debate followed this gratifying news; and many and ingenious were the propositions tendered by the Le Mesurier boys for the entertainment of their brothers; till interruption on the part of Miles roused them all to a sense of the present, and to the necessity of dispersing, in obedience to the butler's peremptory injunctions, as voiced by the gong.