CHAPTER VII.

THE EMERALD.

Hazel let her see herself out from the door of the drawing room,

and then stood still in the middle of the floor with a hand on each

side of her face. Not however considering the land question just

then. She had seen Mr. Rollo but three times for a whole year,—so

ran the first thought. And she had not seen him at all, since the

other night,—so chimed in the second. And these three days of

sleep and unconsciousness had confused the universe to that

degree, that whether the world was round or triangular or square

might be called a nicely balanced question. Had the bay horse

stopped?—then where was his rider?

Hazel darted out of a side door, and stood still to consider. Walked

slowly along for a step or two, (flying about did not just agree with

her to-day) then took her way to the red room, entering

noiselessly; also by a side door. Blushing as if she had not done

her duty in that respect the other day, and so had large arrears to

make up; but not losing the delicate look even so.

'How do you do, Mr. Rollo?' she said softly, and holding out her

hand,—rather, it must be confessed, across a great easy chair

which stood in the way. He had been making up the fire when she

came in, and had looked up and let the tongs drop just before she

spoke. Rollo was cool enough however to see the easy chair and

come round it; but his greeting was grave and wordless. Perhaps

he too remembered that she had not seen him since the other night.

At any rate, anxiety and sympathy and infinite tenderness had

more to express than could be put into words, for the power of

words is limited. When he did speak, it was a simple demand to

know how she did? 'Very well,' she said, softly as before.

'_Is_ it very well?' he said earnestly. 'And how has it been these three

days?'

'O—I have been sleepy. As perhaps you heard,' she said, with the

pretty curl of her lips.

He looked at her a minute, then suddenly releasing her, turned

away to the fire and picked up his tongs again. 'I wish you would

do something to comfort me!' he exclaimed. And the strong grey

eyes were full of tears.

Hazel gave him an extremely astonished look, which went away,

and came again, and once more came back, growing very wistful.

She moved a step nearer to him, then stood still.

'What is it, Mr. Rollo?' she said with one of her sweet intonations,

which was certainly 'comfort' so far as it went. 'What am I to do? I

mean'—she added timidly, 'what have I done?'—for it was greatly

Hazel's habit to somehow charge things back upon herself. But

Rollo mended the fire with scrupulous exactness, put it in perfect

order, set up his tongs; and then stood by the mantel-piece, leaning

his elbows there and looking down at his work. Hazel watched

him, at first with shy swift glances, then, as he did not look up, her

look became more steady. What was he thinking of? It must be

something she had done,—something which he had just heard of,

perhaps,—some wild piece of mischief or thoughtlessness

executed last summer or in the spring. Was he wondering whether

he could ever bring her into order, and make her 'stand?'—was he

meditating the form of some new promise for her to take? winding

in the ends of free action into a new knot which she was to draw

tight? But (so circumstances do alter cases) it did not terrify her

much, if he was; what _did_ try her, was to see him stand there

wearing such a face, and to feel that in some way she was the

cause of it. So she stood looking at him, not quite knowing all

there was in her own face the while; and began to feel tired, and

moved a soft step back again, and rested her hand on the great

chair.

'Mr. Rollo'—she ventured,—'you never used to mind telling me of

any—ways—of mine, which you did not like; or—things—I had

done. And I suppose I can bear it just as well now. Though that is

not saying much, I am afraid.'

At her first word he had looked up, and when she had finished,

came and put her into the big chair and sat down beside it. She

dared not look at him now; his eyes were snapping with fun.

'What is all this?' he said. '_What_ do you want me to tell you,

Wych?'

'I thought— Nothing,' she said rather hastily retreating within

herself again. 'But I did not quite understand you, Mr. Rollo.'

'What do you consider the proper thing to do, when you do not

understand me?'

A little inarticulate sound seemed to say that the course might vary

in different cases. 'Generally,' said Hazel, 'I wait and puzzle it out

by myself.'

'I would _always_ like to help you.'

She laughed a little, shyly, as if _asking_ help were quite another

matter, especially about unknown things. But pondering this one a

minute—it looked so harmless,—out it came, in Hazel's usual

abrupt fashion.

'What you said about "comfort" Mr. Rollo,—I did not suppose you

had ever wanted comfort in your life.'

'Didn't you?'— He did not want much just now!

'Well, what did you mean?'

'You suppose that I have been in a contented state of mind all

summer, for instance?'

'The point in hand is, why you are less contented to-day,' said

Hazel preserving her gravity.

'What made you faint at Gyda's?—and why have you slept three

whole days since?' he said gravely. 'You had better not bring it up,

Wych, or I shall want comfort again.'

'O—these three days?' said Hazel. 'I have just been having my own

way; as I told Mr. Falkirk; and it has agreed with me splendidly. It

was no doing of mine, to send for Dr. Maryland—but Byo always

fidgets over me.'

'And the fainting?—and the walk over the hill? over rough and

smooth, where your little feet must have had a hard time of it;—

and you laid it up against me?'

What had Gyda told him? Not _that_, for that was not true. But

what? Hazel's head drooped lower.

'Mr. Rollo,' she said seriously, 'if you do not cure yourself of your

habit of making statements, some day you will acquire the habit of

making mistakes.'

'No, I shall not,' he said coolly. 'You will not let me.'

If _that_ were one, Hazel made no attempt to correct it; having no

mind just then to deal with any of his mistakes, in any shape;

remembering too exactly what some of them had been. So she sat

very still, looking down at the two small folded hands, and

wondered to herself if Mr. Rollo had cross-questioned Gyda? if he

meant to cross-question her?—and if he did, where she should

hide? That fainting, that walk across the hill!—even now, with

three long days of oblivion between, and the sorrow and the doubt

all pushed aside; even now, she could hardly bear the recollection;

and just caught the deep sigh that was coming, and shut her lips

tight, and kept it back.

And _that_ was what had troubled him! The colour flitted and

changed in her cheeks, in the sort of _live_ way Wych Hazel's colour

had, and then the brown eyes gave a swift sidelong glance, to see

what the owner of the grey ones was about?

He was studying her, as if he had a mind to find out all her

thoughts in their secret hiding-places. But his attention was

diverted now to something in his fingers, which he was unfolding

and unwrapping; and presently he took one of the little folded

hands, the left one, and put upon the forefinger a ring set with a

very large emerald. The ring fitted; the stone was superb. Rollo

laid the little hand, so beringed, in his own palm, and looked at it

there; then his eye met Hazel's with a bright, sweet, peculiar smile.

'We shall never misunderstand each other again, Wych! Shall we?'

It was queer, to see the colour recede and get out of sight, as if

gathering strength for its vivid return. But Hazel did not look at

him, nor at the ring, not at anything,—did not see anything,

probably, just then. She caught her breath a little, finding her

words one by one—

'But —I—never—misunderstood—you,' she said.

'Would you like to stand an examination on that point?'

Hazel considered a little.

'I am willing to hear any—statements.'

'I thought just now you objected to them. However, it will be

necessary for me to make a good many, sooner or later, just to

make sure that you know what you are about in marrying me. But

to begin with this emerald.—Do you know what it means?'

It did occur to the girl, as she went on a foray after her thoughts,

that she had no immediate intention of marrying anybody! But to

use her own words, that was not the point in hand.

'Means?' she repeated,—which of all the five hundred and forty

things that it meant did Mr. Rollo wish to have set forth!—'But

you are to make statements—not ask questions,' she said.

'It is an old jewel that I have had reset for you. I preferred it to a

diamond, because it is a finer stone than any diamond in my

possession, and because of the meaning, as I said. In the

description of John's vision in the Revelation, it is said "there was

a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like to an emerald."—In

Ezekiel's vision the word is, "as the appearance of the bow that is

in the cloud in the day of rain." '

Partly shielding her face with her other hand, Hazel sat studying

the ring, her eyes intent and grave and wide open as a child's.

'What does the rainbow mean?' he asked.

'It was a promise against desolation—at first,' she said slowly; very

unconsciously betraying what already the emerald was to her.

'The promise was against desolation—the bow was the sign for the

faithfulness of the promiser. Where is your Bible?—'

He went on, talking purposely to let Hazel find her composure, for

he saw she was scarcely able to take her part in any conversation.

So he went on. He knew she was listening.

'Do you see?—the rainbow "like to an emerald"—the rainbow

"round about the throne,"—that is the same as, "_thy faithfulness

round about thee_," "O Lord,

who is like unto thee, or to thy

faithfulness round about thee!" So that is what the emerald

means;—faithfulness. First, your faith, and mine; and then, the

strength and repose of that other faithfulness, which is round us

both; in which—we will _both_ walk, Hazel, shall we not?'

He could not tell what she was thinking of. Not of him, apparently,

for the look on the face was far away, as if thought had followed

his words quite out of sight; yet more to something past than

towards other things to come. So leaning her head on her hand she

sat, and then—still full of her thought—looked up at him, the same

child's look of intentness, with words all ready on her lips.

'Then in those days,' she began— But then came the sudden

recollection of whom she was speaking to, and what a stranger he

was, and that he was not a stranger at all; with probably some

quick realization of what she was going to say; for the scarlet

flushed up all over her face again, and her head went down on her

hand, and she was silent.

'What "in those days?"—I want the rest of it.'

'O, the rest of it is more than you think,' said Hazel. 'And it is a

great way off. I should have to take you miles and miles. And I

would rather—not.'

He smiled at her, seeing the beautiful shyness that did not separate

her from him, but only put such a bloom on the fruit—such a

fragrance in the flower. He was content. The freedom and

fearlessness of older affection would come in time, and it would be

pleasant to see it come. He would not hurry her; indeed, as he once

had told her he never asked for what he could not have, so neither

did he care for what was enforced in the giving. Better a free smile

than a kiss bestowed to order. He saw now that she was hardly

ready for many things he had it in his heart to say. He could wait.

The readiness was there, only latent. He played with the hand and

the ring while he was thinking these things.

But now all through the old house rang out the sweet bugle call;

signal for luncheon. No bells, as has been remarked, were heard at

Chickaree. Just a moment's hesitation came over the young

mistress, with visions of Dingee and possibilities of Mr. Falkirk,

and one glance at her ring. Then she turned to Mr. Rollo, giving

her timid invitation as she rose up. 'You will come?' she said,—

and flitted off quick to lead the way, having no sort of mind to go

in state. Rollo followed more slowly, smiling to himself.

'Do you often have company from the cottage at this time?' he

inquired when he had again caught up with Wych Hazel in the

dining room.

'Sometimes—but I gave Mr. Falkirk such a talk at breakfast that I

shall hardly see him again before dinner. Dingee, where is the

coffee? You know Mr. Rollo never touches chocolate.'

'Know dat_ sartain,' said Dingee; 'but Mas' Rollo come in so——'

'Go fetch the coffee,' said Hazel, cutting him short.

Rollo remarked as he seated himself at the table, that he 'didn't feel

as if he could stand Mr. Falkirk to-day.'

'He is very much the same as on most days,' said Hazel. 'I thought

you always rather enjoyed "standing" him, Mr. Rollo?'

'It is becoming necessary for me to make so many statements,' said

Rollo, 'that I am getting puzzled. I am very sorry for Mr. Falkirk.

What sort of a talk did you give him?'

'Mr. Falkirk was so uncommonly glad to see me, that I should have

been all sugar and cream if he had not beset me with business. As

it was, I am afraid I—wasn't.'

'Not my business?'

'Your business? The mills?'

'_Our_ business, then.'

'Hush!—No! I have not got any,' said Hazel, whose spirits and

daring were beginning to stir just a little bit once more, though she

felt a little frightened at herself when the words were out. 'Mr.

Falkirk wanted to know my sovereign pleasure about retaking the

house we had last winter.'

'I am very sorry for Mr. Falkirk!' Rollo repeated gravely. 'Do you

think—by and by, when we have been married a year or two, and

he is accustomed to it,—we could get him to come and make home

with us!'

Hazel looked at him for a second, as if he took her breath away;

but then she looked at nothing else—or did not see it, which came

to the same thing,—for some time. Dingee appeared with baskets

and bouquets, after the old fashion, which had grown to be an

established one at Chickaree; and his mistress looked at them and

ordered them away, and read the cards, and did not know what

names she read. But in all the assortment of beauties there was

never a rose one bit sweeter or fresher than the face that bent down

over them.