you, Mr. Geringer; it was so good of you!” That was all; and the cold calm, calculating man said to himself: “She’s very young—a mere child yet; and I can wait.”
And now he had come, as soon as he felt it prudent after the funeral, to find that he had waited and that Hazel Thorne was no longer a child; and as he saw her in her plain, close-fitting mourning, and the sweet pale face full of care and trouble, he rose to meet her, took both her hands in his, and kissed them with a reverence that won her admiration and respect. “My dear Hazel,” he said softly.
She did not think it strange, but suffered him to lead her to a chair and saw him take one before her. He was her father’s old friend, and she was ready to look up to him for help and guidance in her present strait.
For some minutes they sat in silence, for she could not trust herself to speak, and Geringer waited till she should be more composed.
At last he spoke.
“Hazel, my dear child,” he said.
“My dear child!” What could have been kinder and better! It won her confidence at once. Her father’s old friend would help and counsel her, for she needed the help much; and Archibald had seemed since those terrible days to be thoughtless and selfish instead of helpful.
“I have come to talk to you, Hazel, on very grave matters,” Geringer went on; and she bowed her head for him to continue. “I have to say things to you that ought by rights to be spoken to your mother; but I find here that in future you will be the head of this household, and that mother, brother, sisters will turn to you.”
“Poor mamma! she is broken-hearted,” sighed Hazel. “I shall try to do my best, Mr. Geringer.”
“I know you will, Hazel, come what may.”
“Yes, come what may,” she replied, with another sigh.
“Shall I leave what I have to say for a few weeks, and then talk it over? I can wait.”
“I would rather hear it now,” replied Hazel. “No trouble could be greater than that we have had to bear, and I see you have bad news for us, Mr. Geringer.”
“I regret to say I have—very bad news.”
“Tell me,” said Hazel sadly, as she gazed in her visitor’s face.
“It is about the future, my dear child,” he said slowly; and he watched the effect of his words. “You and your brother and sisters have been brought up here quite in luxury.”
“Papa was always most indulgent and kind.”
“Always,” assented Geringer. “There, I will not hesitate—I will not go roundabout to tell you. I only ask you, my dear Hazel, to try and bear with fortitude the terrible news I have to inflict upon you, and to beg that you will not associate it in future with me.”
“I shall always think of you as my father’s most trusted friend. But pray, pray tell me now, and—and—I will try to bear it as I should.”
She was choked now by her sobs, and as Geringer tenderly took one of her hands, she let him retain it while he spoke.
“My dear Hazel,” he said, “your late father always passed for a wealthy man, but I grieve to say that of late he had embarked in some most unfortunate speculations.”
“Poor papa!”
“They were so bad that at last all depended upon one change in the market—a change that did not take place till after his death.”
Hazel sobbed.
“If he had lived two days longer he would have known that he was a ruined man.”
Hazel’s tears ceased to flow, and Geringer went on:—
“I grieve, then, to tell you, my dear child, that instead of leaving his family in a tolerably independent state, my poor friend has left you all penniless.”
“Penniless?”
“Yes. Worse; for this house and its furniture must go to defray the debts he has left behind. It is terrible—terrible indeed.”
“Terrible?”
“Yes, dreadful,” he said, gazing in her face.
“Is that all?”
“All? All, my child? What do you mean?”
“Is that the terrible trouble you said that you had to communicate.”
“Yes, my dear child,” he exclaimed; “it is dreadful news.”
“But it is only money matters,” said Hazel innocently; and her face lit up with a pleasant smile. “I thought it was some dreadful trouble—some fresh misfortune.” And as she sat looking him full in the eyes, her quick imagination carried her on to the time when Archibald would ask her to be his wife. His father was rich, and they would have a nice, bright little home somewhere, and mamma and the little girls would live with them. Percy would come home during his holidays, and they would be as happy as the day was long. Certainly, she did shrink a little at the thought of mamma and Archibald; but then she knew he would be as self-denying as herself, and he would do anything for her sake, of course.
She was brought back to the present by her visitor.
“You do not think this so great a trouble, then!” he said.
“Oh, no!” cried Hazel. “It only means going to a humbler house: and of course Percy and I will set to work to make mamma happy and comfortable.”
“Of course,” said the visitor dryly.
“And Percy is growing into a man, and he must take an office and do something in the City; and I must do something too, Mr. Geringer—teach music or painting. You will help me, will you not!”
“In any way. In every way I will devote myself to your service. You will allow me?”
“Indeed I will,” she said, placing both her hands in his. “Papa always said you were one of his best friends, and to whom could I look better than to you.”
“Trust me, Hazel, and you shall never repent it,” he cried warmly—so warmly that he saw a half-alarmed look in the young girl’s face; but he succeeded in chasing it away by his after-display of tender regret and reverence; and left her comparatively happy and at rest.
Chapter Four.
A Proposal.
All looked so easy and bright in the future that it seemed harsh on the part of Fate to crush out hope after hope. All appeared so promising when Hazel had discussed her position with Mr. Geringer, and then during the next few months bit by bit the morsels of blue sky were blotted out of her horizon, till all above her seemed cold
