CHAPTER XXII.

PREPARATORY FREAKS.

Hazel could not tell how she had borne herself, through all that

trying evening. But when the evening was over, then she felt as if

she could not have held out one minute more: with the wheels of

Dr. Arthur's buggy rolled away the last mite of her self-control.

One half minute longer of such tension, and she should have

broken down, and called back her promise, and done everything

else to be sorry for next day. It even seemed to her as she stood

there, with all the repressed excitement in "a light low," as if she

could not bear the room itself; and (almost) the people who had

been in it. As if she was wild and frantic and beside herself

generally. She flew off upstairs—not now to solitary musings and

lonely questionings, but straight to the housekeeper's room,—and

was down on her knees with her face hid in Mrs. Bywank's lap,

before anybody, herself included, had chance to breathe. For there

are times, when in all the world there is nothing like a woman,

after all. And in all the world, this was the one woman to whom

she could come. But she would not speak nor look up nor at first

answer questions; only hid her face closer than ever.

Now Mrs. Bywank had seen enough of her young lady, to know

that every real heart sorrow Wych Hazel took to her own room

alone. Also that any emergency of accident or fear, would be acted

upon first, before getting the upper hand. Moreover the one look

she caught as Miss Wych came in, told her much: the sweet

flushed face, the shy eyes that avoided everything; the stirred,

moved, frightened set of the mouth,—Mrs Bywank was old, and

drew her conclusions. Not for many contingencies would Miss

Wych have a fit of the nerves like this.

'So?' she said soothingly, laying her hand on the restless curls. 'Is

that it! I thought there wouldn't be much waiting now!'—Which

brought such a sudden start and twist, that Mrs. Bywank smiled to

herself and knew she was right.

'And when is it to be, Miss Wych?'

'When I have breathed twice and turned round three times.'—

'My dear!' remonstrated Mrs. Bywank. 'I am sure'—

'You are sure of nothing!' said the girl quickly. 'And I am not. Not

sure of myself. Not sure of anybody or anything.'

'Except Mr. Rollo,' said the old housekeeper quietly; smiling softly

then at the success of her spell, for Hazel was silent. 'But that is the

great point. And as I was saying, Miss Wych, I am sure I am glad;

for I have been worried to death about you.'

'You ought to be worried to death about me now,' said Wych

Hazel. 'I am worried to death about myself.'

'Yes?' said the old housekeeper fondly, curling the dark hair round

her fingers. 'Are you my dear? What about, Miss Wych?'

'How can it go right, or be right, when it is all disagreeable?' said

the girl. 'It ought to be pleasant—and it all isn't!'

'It's all new, just now, my dear.'

'Never to be free again!' said Hazel. 'Never to have my own way or

do as I please!'—

'Ah,' said Mrs. Bywank, 'that was Eve's fault! But with a man like

Mr. Rollo, Miss Wych, it will be your own if it gives you much

trouble.'

'Things generally are, that do,' said Hazel. But she sighed a little,

putting her face closer down in her hands. 'Byo,' she said after a

pause, getting hold of the old housekeeper's hand now and laying

her face there, 'it is very, very hard to have it so soon! I have not

thought,—I am not ready,—I feel just as if I should fly!—'

There was no gainsaying part of this, and Mrs. Bywank tried

petting and coaxing instead of reason, for awhile.

'But think how lonely Mr. Rollo is, Miss Wych,' she said, trying a

diversion. 'Think what a two months he has had just now!'

'I am thinking about myself,' said the girl shortly.

'And I am thinking about your cake,' said Mrs. Bywank. 'If it was a

little earlier, I'd go at the raisins to-night.'

Wych Hazel started up with an exclamation.

'Now stop!' she said. 'If you begin to make a bit of fuss, I shall run

away. Who wants cake? People can eat cake at other times, I

suppose.'

'I suppose they can,' said Mrs. Bywank laughing, 'but this is a good

time too. You must have your cake.'

'There will be no dress to stand with it,' said Hazel. 'The cake will

feel lonely—like me.'

Mrs. Bywank sighed a little, stroking the pretty head.

'My dear,' she said, 'you will be dressed, whatever you wear.'

'Can you guess how?' said Wych Hazel. 'I have not heart to put on

a white dress. And I could not get a new one here, if I wanted it,—

and I could not have it made up, if I did. And I wouldn't, if I

could.'

'No,' said the old housekeeper, 'so my dear mistress said. "Bywank,

it will be dreary work for my little Wych to choose her own

wedding dress all alone. I must get it for her." Then she sat and

thought awhile—"No," she said,—"the white would turn yellow,

and the dark would fade." And she stopped for a good while then,'

said the old housekeeper in a trembling voice; 'but by and by she

spoke up, soft and tender—"Bywank, if it is so,—if it should be

so,—tell her to take some one she has; and give her my veil.—And

when she is wrapped in my love—and Dane's love—she will not

mind the dress." And you were asleep on her lap all the while, my

dear.'

Hazel was sobbing quietly in the old housekeeper's arms before the

words were ended; but then she rose up, and kissed Mrs. Bywank

on both cheeks, and went away.

And for awhile she felt better,—tears and coaxing can sometimes

do much. She went to bed and to sleep, prepared to wake up next

morning and do her duty, and be a pattern of all the wise, steady,

and practical virtues. Instead of which, Miss Wych opened her

eyes upon more freaks than had come at her call for many a day.

It was clear, sharp, winter weather, without snow; and the first

fancy that seized the girl, even while she was dressing, was to

spend every minute of spare time in the woods, while still they

were hers. No use to reason with herself, or refute such a statement

of things,—out she must go; and out she did—every possible bit of

the next three days. Too conscious to let any one know where she

was, not liking to have even Lewis look on; she would elude Mrs.

Bywank, and post Lewis in some good open spot where he could

walk himself warm and be within hailing distance. Then she would

wander off, her whistle at her belt, and roam about from tree to

tree and rock to rock of her beloved woods, coming home so

tired!—Always in time for Rollo, if he was expected, never seeing

any one else.

Then, except when he was there, she never sat a minute in the red

room, though the fire was made there regularly, but sometimes she

would wander over the old house in like manner, if the weather

kept her indoors; sitting up late and rising up early, as if she

grudged every minute spared from these last days. It was not good

for her, this way of going on, and did by no means tend to

steadiness of nerves; but no one knew who could interfere, and this

time Mrs. Bywank would not tell. She did all the worrying to

herself, with a sore heart.

It was a sore heart her young lady took with her in her

wanderings,—in all her life Wych Hazel had never felt so utterly

alone. No wonder she was grave when anybody saw her; no

wonder reserve seemed to grow and deepen as Christmas came

near. And there was another disappointment: the pretty Christmas

doings of which she had thought so much, had lost all interest

now. She had written one order and given others concerning

supplies for the Charteris men; but all like a machine, with no

pleasure nor life. Nothing was _her_ doing any more,—what did it

matter? And when in a quiet moment, at night perhaps, she would

get hold of herself, and look at her own goings on; then it turned

all to falsehood and treachery and every other hard name she could

think of, until Hazel felt as if her cup of troubles was quite running

over; and that if Rollo _could_ know, he would never want to set

eyes on her again. Ought she to tell him? Tell him what?—that he

was the very centre of her life, only unhappily not just now a

centre of rest. That was the sum of it all, when she footed things

up; and no shyness nor freaks nor self-will would change _that_. The

mere fact that there was no one else in the world, for her, made her

cling to the very sound of his name, and so seem shyer—as he

said—than any bird that ever flew. It was to be hoped, in these

days, that he was good at interpreting negatives, and reading things

upside down, for not much else came to his eyes. Only somehow

she so far managed herself, that no slightest roughness ever came

out towards him. A little abruptness now and then,—otherwise the

extremest grave reserve, but graceful to a point.

He was pretty good help. Wych Hazel did not, it is true, see very

much of him; the short days were full of business in the Hollow

and he could not always get away; however he managed to come

to dinner several times that week. And then he was full of talk and

interest, full of quiet care and attention, but as calm and

unconscious, seemingly, as if he had never heard of his wedding

day. Only, Wych Hazel felt more and more in his manner that

quality of reverential tenderness, which is the crowning grace a

man can shew to a woman, and which a man never shews to any

woman but one. It marks her as invested with a kind of halo in his

eyes; as sacred and separate from the common world for evermore;

while it is itself a sort of glory of division between her an them,

even in the apprehension of the same world.