CHAPTER XXIV.

ONE AND ONE ARE TWO.

'They will never agree, those two!' said Prudentia Coles, the next

morning at breakfast.

'They will agree perfectly!' said Primrose.

Good Dr. Maryland lifted his eyebrows in astonishment at both

utterances.

'Their ways were too different,' said Mrs. Coles.

'Their ways will be alike,' said Prim.

'Of course, their ways will be _one_,' said the doctor. But he was

very old-fashioned.

And people do not change their natures because they happen to

love one another, nor even because they happen to be married. Still

less!

There happened to be a run of very bad weather for several days

after the two persons concerned arrived in New York. That did not

indeed hinder business in Wall street and elsewhere, but it put an

effective barrier to pleasure seeking out of doors. The best and

most exclusive appointments of the best hotel, did not quite

replace Chickaree, during the long days which Hazel perforce had

to spend by herself. At last there came a morning when the sun

shone.

'What have you got to do to-day?' Rollo asked her.

'One trunk to fill for other people, and two for myself.'

'Sounds large! Can you do it in a day?'

'I am an adept at filling trunks.'

'Let me see your purse.'

'O that needs no looking after,' said Hazel, flushing up.

'I only want to see it,' said Dane smiling. 'Not to rifle it. I want to

see what sort of a thing you carry.'

The "things" were two, and very like Hazel; a pocket-book and

purse of the daintiest possible description. Various coins shewed

through the gold meshes of the one; the Russia leather of the other

told no tales. Rollo turned them over, half smiling to himself.

'Is there enough here for to-day's work?'

'I have Mr. Falkirk's cheque for my last quarter's allowance. I

generally make that do,' said Hazel.

'Doesn't your stock need supplementing?'

'No, thank you,' she said softly and shyly.

'I will arrange all that presently, Hazel. Meanwhile I am very sorry

I cannot go along to help you fill those trunks; but I have several

people to see and less pleasant work to do. We'll get some of this

business over, and then we'll play. Take a carriage, and Byrom

shall wait upon you.'

'I do not want Byrom. He is not used to me. And perhaps I may

walk.'

'Byrom is used to me,' said Dane significantly.

'Proof positive of my two propositions,' said Hazel with a laugh.

'Waiting on me, is bewildering work to a new hand.'

'If I give it him in charge, he will do it well. Byrom has a head.'

'But I do not want to be given in charge. Have not I a head too?'

Rollo laughed at her, and remarked that it was 'one he was bound

to take care of.'

'So am I, I should hope,' said Hazel. 'What do you suppose I shall

do with it—or with myself generally—that you call out a special

detail of police?'

'Did Mr. Falkirk let you go about by yourself?'

'Always! At least, so far as he was concerned,' said Hazel

correcting herself.

'I warned you what you were to expect,' said Rollo lightly. But

then they came to the breakfast table, and something else was

talked of. When the meal was over, and he was about going,

bending down by her chair, he asked,

'What time will you have the carriage?'

'No time,' said Hazel. 'I have decided to walk.'

'I want you to take a carriage and let Byrom attend you—the

sidewalks are in a state of glare ice this morning.'

'I am sure-footed.'

'I am glad of it,' said Rollo half laughing. 'What hour shall I say?'

'Why none!' said Hazel emphatically, with a passing thought of

wonder at his obtuseness, though at the moment she was deep in

her notebook. 'None, thank you.'

Rollo's eyes sparkled, as he stood behind her, and his lips twitched.

'Is that the way you used to handle Mr. Falkirk, when he expressed

his wishes about some point of your action?'

'Mr. Falkirk was indulged with a variety of ways.'

'Have you got a variety in store for me?'

'For any deserving object—I am extremely impartial,' said Hazel

turning a leaf.

'Won't you give me another variety then, this morning?' said he

softly. 'Because I am not going to let you go out on foot to-day,

Hazel.'

'Not _let_ me?—' Hazel repeated, looking round from her notebook

now to ask the question. There was no explanation in the face that

confronted her, nor any consciousness of having said anything that

needed it. Hazel looked at him for a second, open-eyed.

'What can you possibly mean?' she said.

'If it means interference with your pleasure, I am sorry.'

Probably something in face and figure made this reply more

definite than the words, for Wych Hazel's face waked up.

'But it does!' she said. 'I told you so at first.'

'It would interfere with mine very much, to have you go as you

proposed.'

'But that is simply!—' Hazel suddenly checked her rapid words,

and brought her face back over the notebook again; bending down

to hide the crimson which yet could not be hid.

'What is "simply"?' said Dane, touching his own face to the

crimson. But Hazel did not speak.

'I must go, Hazel,' said he now looking at his watch. 'I have not

another minute. I will send Byrom to you for orders.' And with a

very gentle kiss to the bowed cheek as he spoke, he went off. And

Hazel sat still where he left her, and thought,—with her face in her

hands now. Thoughts, and feelings too, were in a whirl. In the first

place,—no, there was no possible telling what came first. But was

he going to direct every little thing of her life? Well, she had given

him leave last winter, in her mind. That is, if he _would_ do it. But

would he really? Somehow she had fancied he would not. She had

fancied that—somehow—he would find out that she had a little

sense, and trust to it. She felt so disappointed, and caged, and

disturbed.—And then she had withstood him!—a thing he never

pretended to bear. Maybe he had gone off disappointed, too. And

one of her old saucy speeches had been on the tip of her tongue!—

and next time, as like as not, it would slip out, and what should she

do then? What should she do now?—go out as she was bid, like a

good child? Hazel almost laughed at herself for the bound her

mind gave, straight back from this idea,—which after all was the

only one to act out. For the old sweetness of temper had taken to

itself no edge, and the old dignity which had so often found its

safety in submission did not fail her now. Nevertheless, Wych

Hazel rose up and stood before the fire, knotting her fingers into

various complications. Yes, it was her duty to go. But when

Byrom knocked at the door, Hazel sprang away to the next room

and sent her orders by Phoebe. Then, after the old comical fashion,

she worked out her waywardness in every possible _proper_ way that

she could. She put on one of her wonderful toilettes, and then went

slowly down the broad stairs (thinking fast!)—and flashed out

upon Byrom like a young empress in her robes. And a sinecure he

had of it for the next few hours. To stand at the carriage door and

receive the most laconic of orders; to see her pass from carriage to

store and from store to carriage, erect and tall and stately, and with

no more apparent notice of the icy sidewalks than if they had been

strewn with cotton wool. If he followed close to pick her up, Wych

Hazel took no notice and gave him no chance. In like manner she

did her work with an executive force and gravity which made the

clerks into quicksilver and drove one or two old admirers whom

she met nearly frantic. They hailed her by her old name; and Hazel

got rid of them she hardly knew how, except that it was in a blaze

of discomfort for herself. And after that she kept furtive watch;

quitting counters and stores, and rushing up—or down—in

elevators, after the most erratic and extraordinary fashion; a vivid

spot on either cheek, and eyes in a shadow, and a mouth that grew

graver every hour. O if she could but order the coachman to

drive—anywhere—till she said stop!—but no such orders could go

through Byrom; she must work off her mood at home. And so at

last, in the darkest dress she had, Wych Hazel once more sat down

before the fire, and put her face in her hands. All through the day,

under and over everything else, the old shyness had green growing

up, mixing itself with the new,—the old dread of having a man

speak to her in the way of comment, with a thought of blame.

Would anybody do it now? So she sat until steps came to the door

and the door opened; then she rose quickly up.

But the matter which had occasioned her so many thoughts, had

scarcely given Rollo one; and it was plain he had fully forgotten it

now in his gladness at seeing her again after the long day. His face

had nothing but gladness; and as he took her in his arms she felt

that the gladness was very tender.

'Work all done!' he asked.

'O no.'—Hazel was glad too. The day _had_ been long.

'But I am going to play to-morrow!'

'Well, what about it?'

'Work must wait. We have got a great deal to do. Don't you agree

with me, that every full cup ought to flow over into some empty

ones?'

'Instead of into its own saucer?' said Hazel, who was rather

abstractedly brushing off an imaginary grain of dust from his coat

stuff. 'Perhaps it would be safe to allow that I do.'

'Well,' said Rollo laughing at her, 'there are plenty of empty cups.

How many can we fill to-morrow?'

'If you have been at work on that problem, no wonder you want

play. How many?—I do not know. How much too full is your cup

to-night?'

'It feels like the widow's inexhaustible cruise of oil. And by the

way, I believe that the store from which anybody may supply

others, is inexhaustible. Now let us consider.' And he stood silent

and thoughtful a few minutes, Hazel not interrupting him.

'I can tell you one thing,' he began again. 'Prudentia Coles would

like a black silk dress; and she cannot afford it.'

'I certainly owe her that,' said Hazel,—'and a royal purple to boot.'

'How do you "owe" it?'

'For tipping my cup over, once. I wonder whether she thought I

was too happy to be let alone?'

'Give her both the dresses, Hazel. _She_ is not a happy woman. It

will fill her cup for the time being.'

'Then, if you talk of debts,' said Hazel, 'I owe Prim the greatest

quantity of wholesome animadversion. It never was of the least use

to me,—but she ought to be paid for it, all the same.'

'I suppose you deserved it,' said Rollo coolly.

'Do you?' said Hazel. _Had_ she? Her thoughts flew over the

confusions of the day,—then before she began again, Rollo asked,

'Have you written to Mr. Falkirk, Hazel?'

'I? No. I have nothing to say to him.'

Rollo looked at her, first with a grave consideration, and then his

lips twitched.

'Nothing to say to him?' he repeated.

'Nothing whatever.'

'Does it fall to me to instruct you in the proprieties? It is due to him

to inform him that you are his ward up no longer; that you have

done what he would very much have disapproved, and married me

at a week's notice; which, you may tell him, was not at all your

fault, and done principally for the sake of the men in the Charteris

mills. Don't you see, Hazel, that you ought to tell him all this?'

'No,' said Hazel, with one of her old witch looks flashing out for a

moment. 'If your right of way does not cover all the disagreeable

business, I cannot see what use in the world I can make of it.'

'My right of way?—' repeated Dane looking at her.

'Yes. The right to do what you please should be extended to take in

all that I do not please.'

'Across all which of mine, _your_ right of way, I suppose, takes a

zigzag track!'

'Underground.'

'It will be dangerous there!' said Dane, his eyes flashing. 'For pity's

sake, Hazel, keep it aboveground.'

'Collisions are bad things,' said Hazel,—'and switching off on a

side track tries one's patience. But about Mr. Falkirk—there never

was the least atom of father and daughter between us; he always

kept me at arm's length. It was one of the trials of my life. And he

has been just throwing me off more and more,—a year ago twenty

sisters would not have made him leave me alone. And he said

nothing but unpleasant things before he went,—and I should have

to lay all the blame on you. And in short,' said Hazel summing up,

'he could not be angry with my letter, and he could with yours,—

which would comfort him up.'

Perhaps it was the thought of Hazel's great loneliness that touched

him, the very remembrance of which he wished to kiss away;

perhaps something else had its share in the caresses which were as

tender as they were loving; but then he said softly,

'It would not be the proper thing, Hazel.'

'Well.—' A rather long breath gave up the point.

'Don't you see it, Wych?'

'Not quite. But you do not know how he talked before he went

away.—Nor what sort of a letter I shall be sure to write. I shall tell

him that as it distracted my attention to run counter to two

people—'

'You will write a very gentle and careful one. He loves you very

much, Hazel. Which was one reason why he was so unwilling that

you and I should get acquainted.'

Wych Hazel looked up at him with absolute terror in her face.

'What do you mean?' she said.

'It is not very strange. I have the greatest respect for Mr. Falkirk—

and not the less because he had sense enough to love you a little

too well. Do you remember your making him go to Catskill?'

Wych Hazel's head went down on her hands, without a word; but

outside the shielding fingers the distressful colour shewed itself in

every possible place. Remember!—what did she not remember?—

things she had done, things she had said.

'He was afraid,' Dane went on smiling, 'that if I had a chance to see

you I might choose to take the conditions of the will; he had good

reason to fear! You must write him the dutifullest, gentlest,

lovingest letter, Hazel; and lay off the blame of everything upon

the shoulders that can bear it. Mr. Falkirk knows me. And if, by

and by, we could coax him to come and make his home with us, I

should be happy.'

'And everybody knew it but me!'—said Hazel, thinking out. 'It is

good I can do no more mischief.'

'What is that?' said Dane laughing. 'What mischief have you done?'

'Hush—I was talking to myself. But oh, I am so sorry!—' Looks

and tones and words and recollections were pouring in upon her

like a flood.

'What are you sorry for? You need not be sorry, my little Wych,'

said he, changing his tone with the last words. 'You have done him

good and given him pleasure for so many years; and I am not

without hope that both good and pleasure will be renewed and

continued to the end of his life. So write a nice letter to him. And

come to dinner in the first place.'

But it was a very remorseful flushed face that came to the table.

'Done him good and given him pleasure!' she repeated;—'teased

his life out, would be nearer the mark.'

'That did him good,' said Dane dryly. 'That is the way you expect

to give me pleasure, you know.'

From under a queer little lift of her eyebrows, Hazel looked up at

him. 'Is it?' she said with equal dryness.

'Does the leopard change his spots?'

'The other half of the simile is more like me,' said Hazel,—

'however, if you prefer this— But given the spots, the pleasure

may be to seek.'

'I can find it, as fast as you find the spots. Will you have cheese

with your soup?'

Hazel thought within herself, declining the cheese, that the day

when she ventured any of her old pranks with _that_ particular

person, was somewhat remote. Would she ever be "true witch"

again, she wondered?

'You forget,' she said. 'You told me once yourself that you thought

very few men could stand it.'

'I meant—except me,' said Dane with great coolness.

'You'—didn't, was on Hazel's tongue, but she let it stay there. A

quick, bright eye flash went over her, but Dane kept his

countenance and went on with his dinner. He understood very well

one or two things that were in Hazel's mind. He knew that she

thought she had lost liberty in marrying, and he knew that she was

mistaken in thinking so; but he also knew that the sweet growths

of the mind cannot be forced; and he could wait. He never said

"my dear" and "my love" to her, this man; he let Hazel find him

out for what he was, all hers; but it might take time. He thought he

would give her a little help.

'Have you been studying the third chapter of Genesis?' he asked

when the servant was out of the room.

'No. At least—I was thinking of Adam and Eve a little when you

came home.'

'In German or English?'

'English prose.'

'It is stronger yet in German. "Dein Wille soll deinem Manne

unterworfen sein, and er soll dein Herr sein." I think you have been

studying it in German. But Hazel, that is the form of the curse; and

the curse is done away in Christ.'

'But,' she said gravely, her timid reserve coming back with the

subject,—'But the facts stand.'

'What facts? And take some nuts along with the facts.'

'The facts—of the case,' said Hazel, using her nut-cracker and

laying the meats abstractedly on one side. 'The right of way,—and

strength to enforce it,—for two.'

Again Dane's eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth were a

little hard to keep in order.

'Neatly put—' he said.

Hazel glanced at him, but she ventured no questions.

'But you forget, Hazel,' he went on gravely, 'that all that, the

odious part of it, belongs to a state of things that in Christ is passed

away. It remains true, no doubt, that "the man is the head of the

woman;" else the lesson-type would not answer to the lesson,

which is to set forth the beauty and nearness of the relation

between Christ and his church. But in a right marriage it is also

true that "the woman is the glory of the man." Not the

housekeeper, nor the nurse, or the plaything, still less the bond-

woman; but the GLORY. She is the flower of all humanity; the

good and beauty and grace of all earth, finds—for him—its

perfectest bloom and expression in her.'

She listened, smiling a little bit, then grave again.

'But that'—she said,—'is _that_ what it means?'

'Excuse me. What what means, Wych?'

'The words you quoted. The last words.'

'Do they mean what I said? Certainly.'

'And only that?'

'Can you make them mean more?'

'For me, a good deal more.'

'Then it will be for me, probably. Go on, and explain.'

'No, perhaps not for you. You might be perfectly content with the

flower, as you call it, in your hand; content with your content;

looking no further.'

'You are mistaken,' said Dane, with a manner both amused and

pleased.—'I should never be content with _my_ content.'

'But I mean—' She was not very willing to tell her meaning, the

words came slowly,—'I used to think, that being so much to him,

she must needs be something in herself. That only one who was a

glory in herself, _could_ be the glory of another. In my way'—Hazel

added, dropping her voice, ' "She will do him good and not evil all

the days of her life." And he will be "known in the gates" by more

than the robe of purple and silk which her hands have woven!—'

As far as the face could then, it went down, bending over the nuts.

Dane looked, and smiled, and took no advantage.

'I do not see the difference of your view from mine,' he remarked

quietly. 'You credit me surely with so much discrimination as to

perceive that some women are nobody's glory,—even as some men

are fit to be nobody's head.'

'But people do not think so,' said Hazel. 'People make it out to be

just something supplemental,—a sort of convenient finishing up

the few trifles of comfort or help wherein a man may be deficient.

That is what they all say.—It is a very queer thing to be a woman!'

'Is it?' said Dane gravely.

'Yes!' said Hazel with one of her outbursts.—'Prim tells me not to

vex you, and Dr. Maryland wants to know if—if I shall be a help

or a hindrance, in short; and he hopes you will not let me have my

own way too much. Nobody enquires if you are likely to vex me,

or to try my temper, or to develope my character, or help on my

work; nobody supposes that I _have_ any work, of my own. But if I

have not, that is only the more queer.'

Rollo left his seat, he had got enough of his nuts; and coming

behind Wych Hazel gently laid hold of both her hands and freed

them from what they held, then insinuated her chair backwards,

and lifting her out of it led her away to the fire and wrapped her in

his arms. What it was no use to say, he did not say, however; as he

had once told her he never asked for a thing he could not have, so

even now, he would not supplicate for confidence which must be

the growth of time. She would find out for herself, by and by, what

concerned him; and the rest he did not are about. So his answer

now was a departure. He did not kiss her; he stood pushing back

the brown curls from her brow, on one side and on the other,

looking down into her face with eyes which Hazel instinctively

knew were too mighty to meet just then. So standing he coolly

asked her,

'Do you love me, duchess?'

'I was talking of loving myself,' said Hazel, touching up her

flushed cheeks with vivid carnation.

'I can do that better than you can. How about your part?'

'Reasoning from facts—probably—I must!'

'You are afraid to confide that deep secret to me? Now I should

have no sort of difficulty in proclaiming mine to anybody who had

any business to ask it. It must be a queer thing to be a woman!'—

said Dane, with a dry, humourous, but at the same time wholly

tender and sweet expression.

'Have I not confided it?' Hazel said under her breath. 'Do you think

I would be here? What makes you ask such things? Is it because—'

But there she stopped.

'Because is a woman's reason. I never do things "because." What

did you mean to ask?'

'I think I have been very unlike myself,—that is all.'

'I never saw you unlike yourself,' Dane said, in that gentle manner

and tone of his which was more than epithets and endearments

from other people. Much more; for those might be mere forms of

expression, and these could not be. And she enquired no further,

nor raised her eyes to search. Standing there with a host of other

questions in her mind; questions she would like to have discussed

and settled, but which never would be;—so she thought. Unless

indeed in the slow, unsatisfactory way in which time settles all

things.