Part 29 (1/2)

To make matters worse, Mrs Thorne would keep up a doleful dirge of repining.

”Ah, Hazel!” she would say, ”it cuts me to the heart to see you compelled to go through all this degrading toil--a miserable cottage, no servant, and work--work--work like that dreadful poor woman who sewed herself to death in a bare garret. Oh, I'd give anything to be able to help you; but I'm past all that.”

”I don't mind it a bit, dear,” Hazel would cry cheerfully, ”I like to be busy;” and if ever the thought crossed her mind that her mother might at least have kept the little house tidy, and the children from mischief, or even have taught them to perform a few domestic offices for the benefit of all concerned, she crushed it down.

All the same her life was one of slavery, and needed no embittering by her mother's reproaches and plaints. Of late she had grown very cold and reserved, feeling that only by such conduct could she escape the criticism of the many watchful eyes by which she was environed. There was very little vanity in her composition, but she could not help realising the truth of her mother's remarks, and this induced her to walk as circ.u.mspectly as she possibly could.

Turning languidly, then, from the school on this particular afternoon, she was about to enter her own gate, when she became aware of the presence of Mr Chute who hurried up with--

”You haven't given me your pence to change for you lately. Miss Thorne.

I haven't offended you, have I?”

”Offended me, Mr Chute? Oh no,” she replied. ”I will count them up to-morrow, and send in the bag to your school.”

”Oh, no; don't do that,” he said hastily. ”Girls are honest enough, I dare say, but you shouldn't put temptation in their way. I'll come in and fetch them. I say, what a lovely afternoon it is!”

”Yes, lovely indeed!” replied Hazel, ”but the weather seems tiring.”

”Oh, no, it ain't,” he said sharply. ”That's because you're not well.”

”I'm afraid I'm not very well,” said Hazel; ”I so soon get tired now.”

”Of course you do. That's because you don't go out enough. You ought to have a good walk every day.”

”Yes; I believe I ought,” replied Hazel.

”It's going to be a lovely evening,” said Mr Chute.

”Is it?” said Hazel wearily.

”Yes, that it is. I say--it's to do you good, you know--come and have a nice walk to-night.”

”Come--and have a walk!” said Hazel wonderingly.

”Yes,” he said excitedly, for he had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g himself up to this for days; ”come and let's have a walk together. I--that is--you know-- I--'pon my soul, Miss Hazel, I can't hardly say what I mean, but I'm very miserable about you, and if you'd go for a walk along with me to-night, it would do me no end of good.”

”Mr Chute, I could not. It is impossible,” cried Hazel quickly.

”Oh no; it ain't impossible,” he said quickly; ”it's because you're so particular you won't. Look here, then--but don't go.”

”I must go, Mr Chute; I am tired, and I cannot stay to talk.”

”Look here: will you go for a walk to-night, if I take mother too!”

Hazel had hard work to repress a shudder as she shook her head.

”It is very kind of you,” she said quietly; ”but I cannot go. Good afternoon, Mr Chute.”

”You're going in like that because you can see Lambent coming,” he said in a loud voice, and with his whole manner changing; ”but don't you get setting your cap at him, for you shan't have him. I'd hang first; and, look here, you've put me up now--haven't I been ever since you came all that is patient and attentive?”