CHAPTER XX.

ABOUT CHRISTMAS.

The days lingered along, but no worse news came. Rollo was

slowly regaining his usual condition. Still December was half gone

before with all his good will he could undertake the drive from the

Hollow to Chickaree.

Late one afternoon Dr. Arthur set him down at the old house door.

A cool winter breeze was fitfully rustling the dry leaves and giving

a monitory brush past the house now and then; whispering that

Christmas was near, and snow coming. Staying for no look at the

sunlight in the tree-tops, Rollo marched in and went straight to the

red room. He stood suddenly still on opening the door. No one was

there, not even the presence of a fire, but chair and foot-cushion

stood as they had been left two months before; the ashes had not

been removed, and the flowers in the vase had faded and dropped

with no renewal. Rollo next went down the hall to Mrs. Bywank's

quarters. Here a side door stood open, and Mrs. Bywank herself

stood on the steps shading her eyes and gazing down the road.

'What are you looking for, Mrs. Bywank?' said a cheery voice

behind her.

'Mr. Rollo!' cried the old housekeeper turning with a delighted

face. 'I am glad to see you again sir, surely! And well-nigh

yourself again! I am just looking for Miss Wych—it is time she

was home.'

'Where is she?'

'Off and away,' said Mrs. Bywank, with the smile of one who

knows more than his questioner. 'She's a busy little mortal, these

days.'

'What does she find to be busy about?'

'I should like to tell you the whole story, sir,—if we had time,' said

Mrs. Bywank with a glance down the road. 'She'll never tell—and

I think you ought to know. Step this way, Mr. Rollo, and you can

see just as well and be more comfortable.'

Mrs. Bywank led the way to a little corner room where fire and

easy chairs and a large window commanding the approach.

'I suppose you'd like to hear, sir,' she said as she replenished the

fire, 'how the world has gone on down this way for two months

back?'

'Very much,'—Dane said gravely, with however a restless look out

of the window.

'Well sir, about the first days I cannot say much. I hardly saw Miss

Wych at all. She used to dress up and come down and meet Mr.

Falkirk, and then she'd go back to her room, and there she staid.

Only she'd given me orders about the articles for the Hollow.

'So one morning, just as the beef and things were brought into my

kitchen, and one of the maids had gone down for a kettle, in

walked Miss Wych. 'Byo,' says she, 'I am going to make

everything myself in future.'—'But my dear!' said I, 'you do not

know how.'

'I am going to learn,' says she.

'Well,' said I, 'you can look on and learn.'

'I will do it and learn,' says she—and she marched right up to me

and untied my big apron and put it on herself; for I don't believe

_then_ she had an apron belonging to her.'

Without ceasing to keep watch of the window, Dane's eyes gave

token of hearing and heeding, growing large and soft, with a flash

coming across them now and then.

'It's a nice business to hinder Miss Wych when she has a mind,'

Mrs. Bywank went on; 'but I couldn't see her tiring herself over the

fire—so I said, 'But my dear, think of your hands! No gloves!'

'What about my hands?' says she.

'Cooking is bad for them, Miss Wych,' says I.

'Is it?' said she. 'Well, they've had their share of being ornamental.

What is the first thing to do, Byo?'

'So I felt desperate,—and said I, 'My dear, when Mr. Rollo comes

back he will not like to find your hands any different from what

they are now.'—She turned round upon me so,' said Mrs. Bywank

laughing a little, 'that I didn't know what she would say to me for

my impertinence. However, she only gave me one great look out

of her eyes, and then stood looking down at her hands, and then

she ran off,—and was gone a good little while. And I felt so bad I

couldn't set to work nor anything, till at last I knew it must be

done, and I told the girl to set the kettle on. And just then back she

came, looking—Well, you'll know some day, sir, how Miss Wych

_can_ look,' said Mrs. Bywank with dim eyes. 'However, the gloves

were on; and she just took hold, steady and quiet as an old hand,

and never opened her lips but to ask a question. Of course I sat by

and directed, and I kept a girl there to lift and run; but from that

day Miss Wych made every single thing that went to the Hollow—

or to you, sir—with her own little fingers. So that kept her fast all

the mornings.'

Dane's eyes did not leave the window. His lips took a firmer

compression.

'Then in the afternoons she just shut herself up again,—and I knew

that would no do, and I begged her to go out. So she said at last

she couldn't go and come without such a train—and it did seem as

if people were bewitched, sure enough,' said Mrs. Bywank. 'I think

there never _was_ such a run on the house. What with you sick and

Mr. Falkirk somehow not taking much notice—You know he's

gone, sir?'

'Yes.'

'Miss Wych took it rather to heart,' said Mrs. Bywank. 'She

couldn't see why he went. But I asked her then why she didn't ride

in the woods where nobody'd meet her.—'If there was anything to

do there!' she said. 'But nobody lives in my woods.'—'Ask Reo,'

says I. 'He goes everywhere.'

'So I don't know what Reo told her, but now she's out all the

afternoon; busy somewhere. And there!' said Mrs. Bywank, as a

horseman passed the window,—'it's hard to blame her for staying

late. But there she comes!'—and the old housekeeper went softly

from the room.

At a little distance now he could see the brown horse and his rider,

with Lewis following. Coming slowly at first, then with sudden

haste as she saw a horseman at the door. Hazel knew her mistake

in a moment, but she kept up her pace as the unwelcome visiter

came on to meet her; and just at the steps deftly jumped herself

off, giving no chance to civilities. Then after a few words of

colloquy dismissed the intruder, and came slowly up the steps.

There paused, looking wistfully down the empty road, and finally

came in, taking notes and messages from Dingee.

'Give me tea directly,' she said. 'And admit no one, on any pretence

whatever.'

'Mas' Falkirk?' suggested Dingee. 'Spose done come home?'

'Mr. Falkirk never asks admittance.'

'Mas' Rollo?'

'Did you hear what I said!'—exclaimed his mistress; and Dingee

vanished.

Wych Hazel turned for one more look at the road, drew a deep sigh

that was half patient and half impatient; and then slowly pulling

off cap and gloves came forward to the corner room, chanting

softly to herself as she came—

' "Endlich blüht die Aloe,

"Endlich trägt der Palmbaum Früchte;

"Endlich schwindet Furcht und Weh,

"Endlich wird der Schmerz zu nichte;

"Endlich nah't das Freudenthal;

"Endlich, endlich kommt einmal!" '

But with the first step inside the door the girl stopped short,

folding her hands over her eyes as if they were dazzled.

'Endlich?' repeated Rollo. But then there was a long silence.

'Endlich—what?'

'Kommt einmal.—But I thought it never would!'

'Ah, what do you know about it? I am very tired of living without

you, Wych!'

'Yes.'—Words were like sighs to-day.

'Yes? Do _you_ say so? What do you know? There has been all these

weeks a visionary presence of you—that was not you—flitting

before me continually; standing beside me, coming and going, by

night and by day, with the very rustle of your garments and the

look of your brown eyes; but I could not touch it, and it did not

speak to me; it smiled at me, but the lips were silent; and the eyes

sparkled and were sometimes wistful, but it passed on and

vanished. It mocked me, it tantalized me. The experience was good

for me perhaps; I was obliged to remind myself that I had

something else to live for. In the night watches this presence came

and brushed by me—looked in at the door—stood between the

rising sun and my eyes—hovered like a vision in the moonlight;—

sorrowed over me when I was weary, and comforted me when I

was sick. I mean, the vision did; but the fact of the vision

tantalized me. Is this hand true flesh and blood?' He tried it with

his lips. A shadow as of what had been came over the girl's face.

She answered unsteadily—

'You did not stand by me in my watches. You have been off at the

very ends of the earth!—And—O won't you let me go and get off

my habit?'

'How long will you take?'

'Two minutes.'

If there were suspicious wet eyelashes when Miss Wych came

back, she had at least by that time got herself in hand, as well as

got rid of her habit. She came in noiseless and grave and quiet, in a

soft shimmering rustle of deep red silk, and held out her hand

again.

'You should not have stirred out, such a cold day,' she said. 'But

come into the other room; it is warmer there.'

Dane had not sat down, he was standing watching for her; and now

drew her within his arms again, in a seeming ignoring of her

invitation.

'Have you been a good child all these weeks?'

'No.'

'Wherein not?'

'Primrose would have settled composedly down, and been happy in

obeying orders. I wasn't a bit.'

'People are not all good after the same fashion,' said Dane

laughing, holding her fast and looking at her. 'My little Wych was

not happy, nor submissive—but obeyed orders nevertheless.'

'No,' said Wych Hazel slowly, 'I am not sure that I did. I had said I

would keep away if I could—and I remembered how you might

look at me if I went. So it was better to stay and die quietly at

home.'

'Is that the footing on which we are to live in the future?' said Dane

laughing and kissing her. He evidently was rather in a gay mood.

For all answer, Hazel drew him across the hall to the dining room,

and sounding her whistle began to make preparations for tea; with

a speed and energy before which Dingee flew round like a cat.

Then, dismissing him, Hazel crossed over with soft steps to the

side of the lounge and stood there a moment, looking down,

searching out the traces of illness and fatigue. Dane was paler and

thinner certainly than he had been two months before. But his

colour was the colour of health, and his gray eye had certainly

suffered from no faintness. It was very bright now as it met hers,

and he sprang up.

'Nothing ails me,' he said. 'I am only tired with twelve miles in

Arthur's buggy. You will have no doubt how I am, when you see

how much work I mean to do before I go away.'

'You will not do any work to-night,' said Wych Hazel decidedly.

And then she made herself very busy about Mr. Rollo's tea, with

quiet dictatorship making him take and not take, as she saw fit. But

I suppose he was easy to rule to-night, and had besides matter for

study in the grave mouth and the eyes that would hardly meet his.

Perhaps he began to observe that there was more work to do than

he had been aware. Perhaps he saw, that in these two months of

separation the old timidity, the old reserve, had grown up and

flourished to an alarming extent. Just at first, when he came,

defences had not been up, or his sudden appearance had flung

them down; but it was rather the Wych Hazel of last year than of

last October who sat before him now. Betraying herself now and

then, it is true, by a look or a tone, but still on the whole keeping

close guard. Clearly this was not to be an evening of confidences.

Rollo made his observations for a little time; and then enquired

gravely,

'What have you done with Mr. Falkirk?'

'His sister in England wanted him. He went to her. One ought to

have six guardians, you perceive.'

'How do you expect to be taken care of this winter, in such a state

of things?'

'I ought to give more trouble than ever,' said the girl, shaking her

head,—'after such an apprenticeship at taking care of myself.'

'I hope not,' said Dane demurely. 'But Hazel, it is time we began to

talk about business. There is a great deal to be said, at least, before

Arthur comes to fetch me. Do you know it is just a week, or little

more, to Christmas?'

'Yes,' said Hazel. 'I know.'

'I might divide my subject categorically in two parts; how

Christmas is to be kept in the Hollow, and how we shall keep it

here. I want your best attention on both heads.'

'I have not thought—I tried not to think. I wished Christmas a

hundred miles away!'

'I am quite unable to fathom the mystery of that statement.'

'Yes, of course,' said Hazel; 'how should you know? But if you had

been shut off here—' and she gave her plate a little push, sitting

back in her chair, as she might have done,—and had done—in

many of the weary days gone by.

'Meanwhile Christmas is not a hundred miles off,' said Dane

watching her. 'How shall we keep it?'

'I don't know. I never did keep it much.'

'First, there is the Hollow.'

'O in the Hollow!—yes, certainly. They must all have a Christmas

dinner, for one thing.'

'Well, go on. I want your help. I suppose they never kept

Christmas much, either. What shall I do for them?'

'How many Christmas trees would reach through the Hollow?'

Dane shook his head. 'I am afraid we are hardly ready for that. And

there is scant time. I must be content to do without the poetry, this

year, and make everybody happy prosaically.'

'With roast beef and plum pudding,' said Hazel. 'But then I would

rather find out real wants, and supply them. Could that be done?'

'Hardly. Not in detail. The time is too short. In general, there is

always the want of good cheer and of joy-taking; or of anything to

give cause for joy. How would it do, for Christmas, to send in

supplies for a good dinner to every house? Then we can take

breath and think about New Year's Day.'

'I suppose that could not fail. But then, to make them feel really

like Christmas, they ought to have something they do _not_ need.'

'I am open to suggestions,' said Dane smiling. 'As much as they are

to the fruits of them. What shall I give them that they do not need?

I think you are quite right, by the by; though it is not the precise

light in which the subject is commonly viewed by the benefactors

of their species.'

'Yes,' said Hazel. 'As if sleighing on the bare ground was good

enough for people who generally walk. But you want them to

forget the ground for a while, and go softly, and hear the bells.'

'What shall be the bells in this case?' said Rollo with his lips

curling. 'Red apples? Or would pound papers of tea ring better? Or

both make a chime?'

'With a small tinkle of sugarplums.—And oh,' said Hazel eagerly,

'do give them some little niceties to put on! Or let me. I have great

faith in the power of fresh collars and ribbands.'

'Cannot manage anything of that sort up here,' said Dane demurely.

'That will have to wait for New Year's Day. Three hundred and

fifty pieces of roasting beef—three hundred and fifty pounds green

tea—ditto bushels of red apples—three hundred and fifty pounds

sugar candy? Will that meet your notions of a chime of bells for

Christmas?'

Hazel mused over it.

'Perhaps'—she said slowly. 'It is very difficult to know what will

meet one's notions. If I could, I should like to give a little—just a

little—bit of a touch to every spot that wants touching. A touch of

light to the shadow, a touch of healing to the pain; a flower for

every barren place. And so I should not like to give them a

Christmas which they could eat quite all up.'

Dane's lips had been giving way, and now he laughed out.

'You are as impracticable as if you were a fairy. All that takes

_time_, Wych; and as I am not by nature knowing of all things, it

takes study. One day you will accomplish it. But in the mean time,

I should think they could not quite eat up their whole Christmas in

a moment; and as I said, we will see what can be done for New

Year. If you approve. At the same time, the subject is open for

discussion.'

'But you need not think me more visionary than I am,' said Hazel

with a shy glance and laugh. 'I did not mean anything quite silly.

Of course—_all_ the barren places,—only God could fill them. But a

touch to the sorrow, and a touch to the need, and a touch to the

forlornness,—_that_ is what I meant.'

'I did not think you meant anything silly. Tell me more in

particular. I thought I was giving a touch to the need, with the

beef; and a touch to the pleasure, with the apples and candy; and a

touch to the comfort, with the tea. What shall I add to the list?'

'Perhaps nothing,' said Hazel. 'But I meant— You know, all those

things are down on the same level,—and I wanted to get in

strength and exhilaration of some other sort. Though I suppose,'

she added gravely, 'I cannot guess how much even of _that_ may be

in roast beef when one has never had it before. Strength and hope

and purpose may come that way too.'

'They do,' said Dane gravely.

'Well then, you have only to go straight on. Maybe they could not

understand some tunes yet, if the bells rang them out.'

'Straight on,' said Dane smiling. 'And that will furnish me with full

occupation between this and Christmas. Now another thing. I feel

for the people in the other mills,—don't you?'

'O the other mills!' said Hazel. 'I feel for anybody who has any

connection with John Charteris.'

'What can I do?'

'One would like to buy them all up! But failing that— What did

you think to do?'

'May I have your thoughts first?'

'I was only thinking,' said Hazel, 'that it would not be good taste to

go in among the Charteris men at all as among your own.

Anything there, I should think, must be more general and less

personal. Or done by somebody else.'

'Whom, for instance?'

'If Josephine had married anything but diamonds'—said Hazel, 'I

might get hold of her. Or I might do it. But I suppose you would

not like that. How could one manage?' The question put to the

depths of her tea-cup.

'Why should I not like it?'

Wych Hazel laughed a little. 'Really,' she said, 'I do not know.

Only you generally do dislike what I do—and I am seldom so

happy as to know why.'

'That is a statement which one may call unanswerable,' said Rollo

with a significant line of lip. 'And how you dare say it, is more

than I can understand. How could one manage? Nothing easier. I

draw you a cheque, and you write me an order. Unless you prefer

to employ another agent.'

'O I was not thinking of money,' said Hazel. 'But it would not be

quite courteous to enact Christmas in the mills without a word to

the owner—bad as he is. I wonder if I could get hold of Josephine

and hide behind her?'

'No. But you can try it.—What have you been doing, these two

months?'

'Studying,—in brief. I do not mean that I have done nothing else.'

'Learning what?' They had left the supper-table and stood together

before the fire.

'Learning?—that is another matter. When you study between

fights, and fight between studies.'

'Hard learning—well learnt!' said he softly. 'Tell me more. Tell me

results, Hazel.'

Hazel leaned her chin upon her hand, looking thoughtfully into the

fire. 'Results?' she said. 'The result was unconditional surrender. At

least I thought so—until—'

'Until—?'

'Until to-night. It is so good to have you back again!'—she said

with the same brown-study air.

Half laughing, with extreme tenderness at the same time and also

the expression of great gladness, both his arms enfolded her, and

they stood quite silent for a few minutes, till Dane stooped to reach

her lips.

'You shall tell me the rest when you like,' said he. 'Do you want to

tell me any more now?'

'You would not like the rest. It was a very dark time, at first, when

you failed me.'

He was quite silent again. Then drew her off to the sofa.

'I have another subject to talk about, Hazel.'

'Well, I am ready to listen.'

'You remember, I had two subjects to discuss with you.—

Christmas in the Hollow we have arranged for. Now about

Christmas here. My time is disposed of till the day is over. Then I

must go to New York. I have a variety of business to attend to. I

want furniture for my new coffee room, books for the school,

furniture for the new cottages, gifts for New year. I intend to set up

a grocery store also. For all these affairs, and for others, I must go

to town the day after Christmas. I propose that we go together.'

'Yes, I want to go,' said Wych Hazel. 'I need a week in town, to get

ready for the winter here.'

'Perhaps I shall be gone longer than a week,' said Dane, keeping

his gravity.

'O well—I can easily find an escort back, if I get through first.'

'But I should not like that,' said Dane looking her in the face with

his gray eyes very much alive. 'I want your help in my work—I

want you with me every minute—I am tired of living without you.

Don't you understand?'

'Yes, I understand that,' said the girl. Who should, if she did not!—

Dane's lips gave way. 'You do not understand much!' said he.

'Don't you see, Hazel, I am making the audacious proposal that I

should carry my wife with me?'

The girl gave a spring away from him which at once put the

breadth of the fireplace between her and any such notion.

'You characterize the idea so happily,' she said, 'that I will leave it

there. Will you come into the other room, and rest, and be

reasonable?' And Hazel disappeared into the hall and blew a

ringing blast on her whistle for Dingee and lights. In the little

corner room, when Mr. Rollo arrived there, he found a grand fire,

and two arm-chairs on extremely opposite sides of the hearthstone,

and Dingee and his young mistress intent upon the first efforts of

the newly lighted wax candles. The tall white candles, their heavy,

old-fashioned silver holders; and the dark red dress, and dark

brown hair; and the swarthy cheeks of the little attendant,—were

all aglow in the firelight. Wych Hazel's face was as far as possible

kept out of sight. Dane stood beside the mantelpiece, resting his

arm there and looking on; patiently, to outward seeming, so far as

any expression of impatience was concerned.

Wych Hazel stood still for a minute after Dingee had gone, then

with a slow, grave step went over and placed herself in one of the

armchairs.

'Why don't you sit down?' she said. 'It is not good for you to stand.'

'People sit down to rest.'

'Well, as you are tired already, it is the only thing for you to do.'

'I have not gained my cause, and I cannot rest till I do. Bid me rest,

Hazel! on that understanding of it.'

'Certainly not,' said Hazel. 'I cannot afford to lose my wits.'

'I am tired of living without you, Wych. Whether you have any

sympathy with that feeling I do not ask. I only ask you to consider

what regard it fairly deserves.'

'People do not feel apart, unless there is a barrier between,' said

Hazel. 'As when you barred me out of Morton Hollow.'

'Inconsistent'—said Dane smiling; 'and weakly delusive. Hazel,

you must give me a Christmas gift, and you must let it be that

thing which of all others I want the most.'

'If you put it to me what you want,' said Wych Hazel, 'I should say,

patience, and moderation, and a little practical common sense.'

'You are not the embodiment of those things,' said he daringly,—

'and yet I want you.'

'Everything that is worth having, is worth waiting for,' said Hazel

composedly. 'You have enough of me now to criticize—that ought

to content you.'

'Does it content you?'

Hazel started up, and went to him, just touching each arm with one

of her little hands.

'Olaf,'—she said, 'will you please to sit down—and hush? You

know what you promised when I should say that again—'

He took her in his arms and kissed her very fondly, and laughed a

little; but holding her yet, became serious again.

'I am bound!' he said. 'But the nature of the case obliges me to

premise a question or two. Am I not to speak on this subject again

till you bid me?'

'No. Yes. That is preposterous. What is your next question?'

'How long must I wait first?'

'Just as long as you can.'

'Till to-morrow, then. Think of it, Hazel.'

Quitting the subject then, Dane went off into talk that would not

even remind her of it, unless by some delicate chain of association.

He gave her the story of his two months. The sick people had been

at the first removed to the end of the valley, in some shanties apart

from all the rest; and there he and they had been in quarantine

together. There the fearful disease had seized one after another of

that little band of poor Germans last-arrived, till ten of them were

down with it at once. Everybody fled the spot; would not come

near enough even to receive messages; and not for love nor money

could help be got for nursing. Only old Gyda; and she and Rollo

had had it all to do between them; even to washing the clothes the

sick persons wore or had on their beds. Dr. Arthur of course had

done all he could, but he had other sick beds to attend to; it was

out of the question that he should devote himself solely to those at

the end of the Hollow; especially as every visit there made needful

a careful disinfecting and purifying process before he could

approach anybody else, sick or well. Rollo and Gyda had struggled

on together, one watching while the other slept. And so Dane

would go from one sick-bed to the next, till he had made the

round, and begin again; through it all thinking of what he had left

at Chickaree, and of Hazel's pleadings that he had been obliged to

disallow, scarce daring to think of the possible joy of going back to

her again when the distress should be over. For he could not tell

that it would ever be over without first laying himself as low as

those whom he tended. The shanties where the sick lay, little better

than sheds, had been very good for them but very trying

sometimes to the watchers. However, the abundance of fresh air,

and the careful quarantine, with a blessing upon the means used,

had availed. No outsider had caught the infection, and only two of

the sick had died. Those two, Rollo and Arthur had buried, alone

and by night.

Softly, slowly, as a man who felt deeply the shadow of fear under

which he had been passing and from out of which he had come,

Dane told Hazel all this. And as one hears the verification of some

fearful dream, so Hazel listened. She had taken her foot-cushion

again, and sat with varying colour and averted eyes, and now and

then a "yes" of full intelligence. For the scanty details she had

received from time to time, had been more than filled out by her

imagination; and point by point she seemed to know the story

before it was told. By and by one hand came upon the arm of

Rollo's chair, and then she leaned her forehead down against that

hand, and so sat when the story was finished. Once or twice a

quick shiver went over her; otherwise she was quite still.

'I was not unhappy, Wych,' said Dane after a little pause. 'My

latent longing for you it is impossible to tell; but I could not let it

come to the front then. And there is a walk and a place "with Jesus

only," which at the time is joyful, and on looking back to it seems

to have wanted nothing.'

Her head stirred a little; presently, she answered,—'I did not think

you were unhappy. If I had, I believe it would have been a help

sometimes.'

'Hey?—a help? How?'

'You would not have seemed so far off. And I should not have

seemed so much alone.'

'That was a mistake, Hazel.'

'I only said it seemed so. But there was a certain truth in it, too;

because happy people never do guess exactly what goes on in the

rest of the world.'

'Pray, do the unhappy people?'

But Hazel caught the sound of steps, and started away from her

foot-cushion time enough to meet Dr. Arthur midway in the room.

'Rested, Dane?' said the doctor, standing before his late patient.

'That does not sound like a complicated question,' said Dane; 'but it

means a good deal. I am ready.'

'What he wants,' said Dr. Arthur, turning gravely to Wych Hazel,

'is a change. If your grace could persuade him to go off for a while,

in the right company, he would come back a new man.'

'I shall have a change this week,' said Dane rising. 'Come along,

old fellow, or I shall prescribe for you.—I shall be here as early as

I can, Hazel; before dinner.'