'I feared you were ill with fatigue,' said a pleasant man's voice. 'Three times I have called to inquire, and three times gone away in despair.'

'I was very tired.'

'But what was the matter?' said the gentleman, pausing in the doorway. 'Some call of sudden illness? a demand upon your sympathies?'

'Nothing of the kind.'

'How then?' said Captain Lancaster, with an appearance of great interest. 'One does not lose a pleasure—and such a pleasure—without at least begging to know why. If it is permitted. We began to think that the witches must have got hold of you in that dark room.'

'One did,' said the girl, so gravely that Captain Lancaster was posed. She knew perfectly well what ears were listening; but there was something in her nature which always disdained to creep out of a difficulty; so she stood still, and answered as he had spoken, aloud.

'O, Miss Kennedy,' cried Molly Seaton, 'that's a fib. Not a real witch?'

'Pretty genuine, I think,' said Hazel, with her half laugh.

Now there is no way in the world to puzzle people like telling them the truth. The gentleman and the lady were puzzled. Stuart Nightingale and half a dozen more came up at the instant; and the question of the game to be played, for the time scattered all other questions.

For a while now the little green at Chickaree was a pretty sight. Dotted with a moving crowd of figures, in gay-coloured dresses, moving in graceful lines or standing in pretty attitudes; the play, the shifting of places, the cries and the laughter, all made a flashing, changing picture, full of life and full of picturesque prettiness. The interests of the game were at first absorbing. When a long match had been played, however, and there was a pause for refreshments, there was also a chance for rolling balls in the more airy manner Wych Hazel had indicated.

'What was the matter the other night?' Stuart Nightingale demanded softly, as he brought the little lady of the house an ice.

'I could not stay.'

'Summoned home by no disaster?'—

'It was a sort of disaster to me to be obliged to go,' said Wych Hazel, 'but I found neither earthquake nor volcano at home.'

'Who came for you, Hazel?' said Phinny Powder, pushing into the group which was forming. 'I said it was downright wicked to let you go off so. How did we know but that something dreadful had got hold of you? I thought they ought all of them to go in a body and knock the doors down and find out. But after your message they wouldn't. Who did come for you, Hazel?'

'Who did?' said Hazel. 'Do you think it could have been the same parties who once sent away my carriage when I wanted it?'

'No,' said Phinny; 'I know it wasn't. But who did come for you, Hazel? Nobody knew where you were. And what made you go, if there was no earthquake at home, as you said?'

'Were you made to go, really?' asked Mme. Lasalle, slyly. 'Has Josephine hit the mark with a stray arrow?'

'O, of course I was made to go,—or I shouldn't have gone,' said Wych Hazel lightly. 'My own carriage came for me, Josephine, and I came home in it. Do you feel any better?'

'No, I don't!' said that young lady boldly, while others who were silent used their eyes. 'You didn't order it, and I just want to know who did. O, Hazel, I want to ask you—' But she lowered her voice and glanced round her suspiciously.

'Is it safe? Where is that old Mr.——? do you see him anywhere? He has eyes, and I suppose he has ears. Hush! I guess it's safe. Hazel, my dear, have you got two guardians, you poor creature?'

'Have you only just found that out?' said Hazel, drawing a little back from the whisper and answering aloud. 'Prim, what will you have? Mr. May, please bring another ice for Miss Maryland.'

'Well, I've guessed it all summer,' said Kitty Fisher, putting her word in now. 'I always knew that when Miss Kennedy turned round, the Duke turned too, to see what she was looking at.'

If truth be no slander, it is sometimes full as hard to bear. Wych Hazel eat her own ice for the next two minutes and wondered what it was.

'Hazel, my dear, you had need to be a saint!' Mme. Lasalle whispered. 'It is—absolutely—outrageous; something not to be borne!'

'But the fun of it is,' broke in Kitty again, 'that we all took it for granted it was mere lover-like devotion! And now, behold, c'est tout au contraire!'

Since the day of the ride it had been war to the knife with Kitty Fisher.

'Kitty! Kitty!' said Mr. Kingsland in soft deprecation.

'My dear,' Mme. Lasalle went on mockingly, 'perhaps he would not approve of your eating so much ice. Hadn't you better take care?'

'Must we ask him about everything now, before we can have you?' cried Josephine, in great indignation, quite unfeigned, though possibly springing from a double root. 'O, was it he came for you to Greenbush?'

But with that Hazel roused herself.

'You had better ask him anything you want answered,' she said. 'I think he has quite a genius that way.'

'What way? O, you know, friends, perhaps, she likes it. What way, Hazel?'

'Does he speak soft when he gives his orders?' said Kitty Fisher. 'Or does he use his ordinary tone?'

'And oh, Miss Kennedy,' said little Molly Seaton, 'isn't it awfully nice to have such a handsome man tell you what to do?'

Now Hazel had been at her wits' end, feeling as if there was a trap for her, whatever she said or did not say. Pain and nervousness and almost fright had kept her still. But Molly's question brought things to such a climax, that she burst into an uncontrollable little laugh, and so answered everybody at once in the best manner possible. The sound of her laugh brought back the gentlemen too,—roaming off after their own ices,—and that would make a diversion.

But it came up again and again. It was to some too tempting a subject of fun; for others it had a deeper interest; it could not be suffered to lie still. Wych Hazel's ears could hardly get out of the sound of raillery, in all sorts of forms; from the soft insinuation of mischief in a mosquito's song, to the downright attacks of Kitty Fisher's teeth and Phinny Powder's claws. The air was full of it at last, to Wych Hazel's fancy; even the gentlemen, when they dared not speak openly, seemed in manner or tone to be commiserating or laughing at her.

'The diplomacy of truth!' said Mr. Kingsland to Mr. Falkirk, as Hazel passed near them with Mme. Lasalle. 'I must believe in it as a fixed fact,—where it exists! I should judge, by rough estimate, that Miss Kennedy had been asked about fifty- five trying questions this day; and in not one case, to my knowledge, has her answer even clipped the truth. She is a ninth wonder,—and from that on to the twenty-ninth! With all her innocence and ignorance—which would not comprehend nine- tenths of what might be said to her, I do not know the man who would dare say one word which she should not hear!'—With which somewhat unusual expression of his feelings Mr. Kingsland took himself away, leaving Prim and Mr. Falkirk alone on the verandah.

But it was a rather weary-faced young hostess that wrapped Prim up, after that, and the lips that kissed her were hot.

Mr. Falkirk went down to his cottage and came back to breakfast the next morning, without having broached to his ward several subjects which stirred his thoughts. Finding himself in the fresh light of the new day, and in the security of the early morning, seated opposite Miss Hazel at the breakfast table, with the croquet confusion a thing of the past, he opened his mind.

'You had no wine yesterday, my dear, I observed.'

'No, sir. As I intended.'

'That is not according to custom—of other people.'

'It is my custom—henceforth,' said Wych Hazel.

'Are the reasons too abstruse for my comprehension?'

The girl looked up at him, her eyes kindling.

'Mr. Falkirk,' she said, 'if ever again a man gets a glass of wine from my hand, or in my house, I shall deserve to live that July night all over!'

Mr. Falkirk did not at all attempt to combat this conclusion. He ate his toast with an extremely thoughtful face for some minute or two.'

'Suppose, by and by, there should be two words to that bargain?'

'Then there will be several more, sir,—that is all,' she said steadily, though her face glowed.

'You mean that you will fight for your position?'

'Inch by inch. Fight for it, and keep it.'

Mr. Falkirk's lips gave way a little, though with what expression it was impossible to determine.

'To remark that your position will be remarked upon as peculiar is, I am aware, to make a fruitless expenditure of words in your hearing, Miss Hazel. But it will not make much difference what you do, my dear. They will find the article, in its varieties, at every other house that is open to them.' Mr. Falkirk was thinking probably of young men.

'Well, sir—I, at least, will have no part in making any man unfit to speak to a woman.'

Mr. Falkirk ruminated again, and then broke out:

'Why did not Rollo come with Miss Maryland yesterday?'

'I presume, because he did not want to come,—but perhaps you had better ask him,' said Miss Hazel.

'Why should I ask him?' returned her guardian, looking up at her. 'Has Mr. Rollo offended you, Miss Hazel?'

'I merely thought you wanted to know, sir. No,' she answered, to his last question. 'He was invited—if that is what you mean.'

'I fancied,' said Mr. Falkirk, looking puzzled, 'that in the general buzz of tongues yesterday—which is fit to confuse anything with more brains than a mosquito—I heard various buzzings which seemed to have reference to him. Perhaps I was wrong. I did not mean to listen, but if a fly gets into your ear it is difficult not to know it. Was I right, or was I wrong?'

'Right, I fancy, sir. Mr. Rollo's name is very often upon people's tongues.'

'What did they mean? What was it about?'

She hesitated a little.

'I daresay your opinion was correct, Mr. Falkirk, as to the meaning as well as the buzz. It is hardly worth bringing up again.'

If Mr. Falkirk had any roughness in his manner or in his composition, he had also and certainly a very gentle side of it for his ward. He looked at her again and dropped the subject. But he had got another. He waited a little before bringing it up.

'Another thing I heard confused my ideas, Miss Hazel. You must not wonder at me; you know, a bear just out of winter quarters might well be astonished at coming into a garden full of crickets, and a little unable to distinguish one song from another. But it seemed to me that I heard something said—or alluded to—about your being unwillingly obliged to go home from somewhere. Can you give me any explanation?'

The pause was longer this time, the colour unsteady. Then she put both hands up to her forehead, pushing back the dark rings of hair with an impatient touch, and began, speaking low and rapidly, but straight to the point.

'I was invited to a garden party at Mrs. Powder's, and after I got there, found out that the invitation included a four-in- hand drive to Greenbush. And I went. And Mr. Rollo heard of my going, and followed me there with Primrose and Reo and the carriage, and made me come back.'—She had gone on, throwing in details, as if to prevent their being called for. Now the scarlet flush with which the last words were spoken faded away, and she was silent and rather pale.

I suppose Mr. Falkirk had done his breakfast. If not, he lost the last part of it. For as Wych Hazel stopped speaking he rose from the table and began to take turns up and down the room; scowling, it must be confessed, as if he would have rather liked an excuse to 'pitch into' his co-guardian. He said nothing for some minutes, and it was not necessary; his eyebrows were eloquent.

'A four-in-hand party!' he said at last. 'Who got it up?'

'Some of the four-in-hand club.'

'Who are they, Miss Hazel?'

'Mr. May, Captain Lancaster, Dr. Singleton,'—Hazel named over sundry names that were unknown to Mr. Falkirk.

'He's a bold man!' said Mr. Falkirk, probably not referring to any member of the club aforesaid. 'I wonder at his impudence. But, my dear!—a four-in-hand party, and Greenbush at night,— that was no sort of place for you to be! Do you know how these parties come home, who go out so bravely?'

'I knew pretty well, sir, how my party would,' said his ward.

'No you didn't. How should you know anything about it? The young mouse in the fable thought the cat was a very fine gentleman. Con—found him!' said Mr. Falkirk, stopping short, 'how did he know? Was he at the garden party at the Governor's?'

'No, sir.'

'Then how did he know where you were?'

'Mr. Rollo seems to be a man who gives close attention to his duties,'—rather dryly.

'I was the proper person to be applied to,' muttered Mr. Falkirk. 'I should like to be informed how this came about?'

But Miss Hazel not giving—as indeed she was in no position to give—any light on this point, Mr. Falkirk walked a little more, and then brought up with:

'Don't go again, my dear.'

'I am not likely to go often anywhere, at such a risk!' said Wych Hazel, the tide beginning to overflow again.—'Poor little me!' she broke out, in a tone that was sorrowful as well as impatient,—'always in charge of two policemen! Why, you could almost keep a convict in order with that!' Then in a moment she sprang up, and coming to her guardian's side laid her hand on his arm. 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Falkirk! I did not mean it in any way to hurt you.'

'No, my dear,' said her guardian, gently, laying his hand on hers. 'I am not hurt. I understand, as I ought, having seen you twitch yourself out of leading-strings ever since you were old enough to go. It is rather hard upon you. But how came it to your knowledge, Hazel?' And Mr. Falkirk looked grave.

'It came—through somebody telling Mrs. Coles what was none of her business,' said the girl, with more energy than exactness of wording.

'Who did that?'

'I am sure I don't know, sir. She talks as if she had known it always.'

'Like enough. And she told you! The whole story, my dear?' added Mr. Falkirk, gently and softly.

'I hope there is nothing more!' said Hazel, again donning her scarlet in hot taste.

'Enough and too much!' muttered Mr. Falkirk. 'Poor child! So the old guardian is better than the young one, my dear?'

'It used to be supposed,' said the girl, dancing off out of the room, 'that twice one is two. But I am inclined to think that twice one is six!'—Which was all the satisfaction Mr. Falkirk got.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

FRIENDLY TONGUES.

Yes, it was very hard for her; much harder than any one knew but herself. The joke was too striking to be passed by, even in the case of an ordinary person; but when it was Miss Kennedy,—heiress, beauty, and queen of favour,—all tongues took it up. She could go nowhere, wear nothing, do nothing, without meeting that one subject face to face. Many things brought it forward. Kitty Fisher of course had exasperation in her heart; but there were other (supposably) gentle breasts where even less lovely feelings, of shorter names, found lodgment. Hazel was condoled with, laughed at, twitted, by turns; until even Mr. Rollo's name in the distance made her shrink. Mrs. Coles had not (apparently) made known the conditions upon which he had assumed his office; but Wych Hazel was in daily terror lest she would; and as people often graze the truth which yet they do not know, so hardest of all to bear just now, were Kitty Fisher's two new names for her: 'the Duchess,' and 'Your Grace.' Most people indeed did not know their point, ignorant of Prim's pet name for Mr. Rollo; but Wych Hazel needed no telling; and her face was sometimes a thing to see.

That was the worst of it!—it was a thing to see. And so, while now and then one of her special gentlemen friends would interpose, and draw the strokes upon himself; yet her delicate, womanly fencing was so pretty, so novel; it was such sport to watch the little hands turn off and parry Kitty Fisher's rude thrusts; that few masculine hearts were unselfish enough to forego it. There were actual wagers out as to how long 'the Duchess' could carry it on without losing her temper or clipping the truth; and how soon 'the Fisher' would get tired and give it up. And as for the tokens in Miss Kennedy's face sometimes, who that had once seen them did not watch to see them again? Other people began to take up the new titles; and Mme. Lasalle made courtesies to 'the Duchess,' and Stuart Nightingale and Mr. May bowed low before 'her Grace,' entreating her hand for the quadrille or the promenade.

'And some night he will be standing by and hear them say it!' thought Wych Hazel to herself. What should she do? Where should she go?

Since the talk on the drive home from Mme. Lasalle's, the girl had never set foot in one the round dances. Not that she gave in to Mr. Rollo's strictures,—how could she be mistaken?—but because the talk had left an unbearable association about everything that looked like a round dance. There was the constant remembrance of the words he had spoken,—there was the constant fear that he might stand by and think those thoughts again. Then she had been extremely disgusted with Kitty Fisher's new figures; and so, on the whole, in the face of persuasions and charges of affectation, Miss Kennedy could be had for nothing but reels, country dances, and quadrilles. Miss Fisher and her set were furious, of course; for all the gentlemen liked what Miss Kennedy liked: there was no use talking about it.

If anybody had asked the girl in those weeks before the fancy ball what she was doing—and why she wanted to do it,—she would have found it hard to tell. Braving out people's tongues, was one thing; and plunging into all sorts of escapades because any day they might be forbidden, was another. A sort of wild resolving that her young guardian should not feel his power; and endeavour to prove to him that anybody aspiring to that office without her leave asked and obtained, was likely to serve a short term.

'Is it only till you marry, my dear?—or is it for life?' Mme. Lasalle said, meaningly. And Hazel laughed off an answer, and set her little foot down (mentally) with tremendous force. Wouldn't she marry whom she liked—if she liked?

'He proposes to make you his wife'—Mrs. Coles had said. She would like to know what his 'proposing' had to do with it?— except, perhaps, as an initiatory step.

It was a new version of Katharine and Petruchio,—sneered Kitty Fisher.

It was a striking instance of disinterested benevolence—in so young a man! chimed in Mrs. Seaton,—until at last Hazel rushed into anything that would put a black coat or whirl of white muslin between her and her tormentors. If she was in truth running away from herself as well, the confusion was too great for her to know it just then. The very idea of stopping to think what he meant and what she meant, frightened her; and then she ran faster than ever.

Of all this Rollo was but slightly aware. Yet he did guess at part of it. He had seen too much of both men and women not to know in a measure what must be the natural effect of circumstances. And he would have saved Miss Kennedy the worst of it,—only he could not. He was sometimes at the entertainments where she met so much exasperation, and saw from a distance as it were the wild whirl of her gaiety. Perhaps he guessed at the meaning of that too. But he was only a man, and he could not be sure. He never asked her to dance himself, and never joined a quadrille or reel when she was one of the set. And that is nearly tantamount to saying he did not dance at all. For reels and quadrilles were very much out of favour, and rarely adopted except just for Miss Kennedy. And in truth Mr. Rollo in this state of affairs chose to be only now and then seen at evening entertainments. When there he was rather Spanish in his manners, after the old Catskill fashion. Very Spanish indeed Mrs. Coles found him at home; his lofty courtesy kept her at the extreme distance permitted in the grace of good manners.

Meanwhile, no tete-a-tete conversation had been practicable with Wych Hazel. He had sought it; but she refused his invitations to ride, and while she was in that mood he did not choose either to risk being turned away again from the Chickaree door, or to encounter her in a drawing-room full of company. However, when a good many days had come and gone in this state of estrangement, Rollo began to feel that it was getting unbearable. So he rode up to Chickaree one day just at luncheon time.

Miss Kennedy was not at home. Not at home in the honest sense of the words. Mr. Rollo asked for Mrs. Bywank, and marched straight to the housekeeper's room. And Mrs. Bywank's greeting made him feel that, for some reason, he had come at the right time. She begged him to sit down, and ordered luncheon; asking if he was in haste, or if they might wait a little for Miss Wych?

'She walked down to Mr. Falkirk's a long time ago,' said the housekeeper, 'but I am looking for her every minute. Unless you cannot wait, Mr. Rollo?'

He would wait; and desired to have Mrs. Bywank's report touching the health of her young mistress. Mrs. Bywank looked perplexed.

'She's not herself, sir,' she answered slowly. 'And yet it would be hard to explain that. I've been wanting to see you, Mr. Rollo, more than I can say; and now you are here I hardly know how to tell why.'

'That makes me wish very much you would find out.'

'Phoebe will have it she is sick,' said the housekeeper, pondering,—'and sometimes I think so myself. I know she goes out too much. And stays up too late. Why, the last time she came from Governor Powder's I was frightened half to death.'

'That was two weeks ago?'

'Yes, Mr. Rollo. I expected her early, and then Lewis brought word it would be late,—and so it was. Near morning, in fact.'

'Yes. Well?—She did not suffer from being out too late?'

'I'm sure I don't know, sir, what it was. She walked into the hall just as strong and straight as ever, and then she dropped right down on the first stair, and put her hands and face against the balustrade, and I couldn't get one word from her— nor one look,—any more than if she'd been part of the staircase.

'For how long?' asked the gentleman after a short pause, and in a lowered tone.

'It seemed a week to me,' said Mrs. Bywank,—'but I only know nothing stirred her till she heard the servants begin to move about the house. And then she got up, in a sort of slow way, so that I thought she would fall. And I put my arm around her, and she laid her head on my shoulder, and so we went upstairs. But she only said she was "very, very tired," and didn't want any breakfast. I couldn't get another word but that.'

'And since then?'—said her hearer, after another pause in which he seemed to have forgotten himself.

'Since then,' said Mrs. Bywank, 'there have been balls and picnics and dinners enough to take one's breath away. But it don't seem to me she can enjoy them much—she comes home so often with a sort of troubled look that I can't understand. And when I ask if she's not well, she says, "Yes, very well." So what is one to to?'

'I don't think you can do anything, Mrs. Bywank. Perhaps I can. Is that all you have to tell me?'

'Not quite, sir,'—but the old housekeeper hesitated. 'I am not sure about saying all I wanted to say.'

'Why?' said Rollo, smiling.

'It is a nice matter for one woman to talk about another woman,' said Mrs. Bywank; and again she paused, evidently considering where care ended and treason began. 'I am a little uneasy, sir,—more than a little,—about some of these young men that come here so often.'

'On what account?' said Rollo shortly and gravely, with a tone that meant to get to the bottom of that at least.

'Why,' said Mrs. Bywank, glancing at him, 'chiefly because I think Miss Wych does not know in the least how often they come. Which, if she thought twice about any one of them, she would. And if I just hint it to her, she looks at me, and says—"Often?—when was he here before? I don't remember." All the same, they don't understand that.'

'Well?' said Rollo. 'They are quite equal to taking care of themselves. Tell me of any danger to her.'

'It lies just there, sir. That she might be drawn on—in her innocence—to grant favours covering she knows not what. And sometimes that works trouble. Not caring two snaps for the men, it might never occur to her that they were favours—till the cobwebs were all round her feet. You know that, sir?'

Her hearer's brows contracted a little, and the grey eyes snapped; but he was silent.

'Now here's this fancy ball at Moscheloo,' said Mrs. Bywank,— 'with all sorts of charades that nobody ought to be in.'

'What is that? I have not heard of it.'

'I opine they have kept it rather close,' said the housekeeper,—'the day after to-morrow it comes off; and not a soul let in without a ticket. I hoped you might have one, Mr. Rollo.'

'What about the charades?'

'I don't like them,' said Mrs. Bywank decidedly,—'and they want Miss Wych in every one. So she's been getting her dresses ready, with my help, and telling me the whole story. It's "Mr. May and I are to do this,"—and "While I stand so, Captain Lancaster stands so." The last of all is a wedding.'

'A wedding!' Rollo repeated. 'Is she to be in that too?'

'Of course,' said Mrs. Bywank. 'And she said she tried ever so hard to get a ticket for me—that I might see her dressed up. But Madame would not. So said I, "Miss Wych, I would rather not see you in that dress, till it's the real thing."

' "O—take what you can get," she said, running the needle into her finger and making a great fuss about it.

' "My dear," I said, "marriage is much too sacred a thing, in my judgment, to be turned into a frolic."

' "Well I didn't want to do it," she said, a little sober; "but Madame would not let me off." '

'Well?—' said Rollo, with a short breath, as the old lady again paused.

' "But Miss Wych," I said, "are you to act that with Captain Lancaster?"

'So she flamed out at that, and asked me if I thought she would?

' "Well," said I, "for my part, I don't understand how any young lady who expects to be married"—but she put her hand right over my mouth.

' "Now Byo, stop!" she said. "You know you are talking of me— not of other young ladies."

' "Who is to be the happy man in this case?" said I, when she would let me speak. And she just looked at me, and wouldn't answer a word. So I went on. "I suppose I may talk about men, Miss Wych,—and I say I don't think the right sort of man, who meant some day to marry the right sort of woman, would ever want to go through the motions with everybody else."—She was silent a while,—then she looked up.

' "I wish I had heard all this before, Byo,—but it's too late now, for I've promised. And of course I never thought it all out so. You know I've never even seen a wedding. But is only Mr. Lasalle, in this case; and you know he has 'been though the motions' "—Mr. Lasalle, truly!' Mrs. Bywank repeated in great scorn. 'A likely thing!'

'Going through the motions!' Rollo repeated. 'Do you mean that the wedding ceremony is to be performed?'

'It sounds so, to me,' said Mrs. Bywank. ' "Well, my dear," said I,—"then I say this. No man who has been through the motions in earnest with one woman, ought to go them over in play with another."

'She looked up again,—one of her pretty, grave looks; and said slowly, as if she was thinking out her words: "Maybe you are right, Byo. I never thought about it. And of course that sort of man never could."

' "What sort?" I said. "Then you have thought about it, Miss Wych?"—Well, she was like a little fury at that,' said Mrs. Bywank, smiling at the recollection,—'as near as she can ever come to it. And she caught up her hat and went off; and called back to me that she meant to go through motions enough of some sort, to be ready for her lunch when she got home.—But I wish she was out of it, Mr. Rollo.'

Her hearer sat silent for a minute.

'Mrs. Bywank, can you find Miss Hazel's ticket for this ball?'

'I daresay, sir. Would you like to see it?—she shewed it to me.'

'I would like to see it very much.'

The housekeeper went off, and presently brought back the little perfumed card, with scrolls and signatures, and 'Admit— —' and 'Not transferable.'

'She puts her own name in this place before she gives it in,' said Mrs. Bywank.

The gentleman looked at the ticket attentively—then bestowed it safely in his vest pocket; as if that subject was disposed of.

'But Mr. Rollo!'—said the housekeeper in some consternation.

'What, Mrs. Bywank?' he returned innocently.

'Miss Wych will never forgive me, sir!'

'What?'

'Why—for stealing her ticket and giving it to you, sir.'

'You have not stolen it. And you never meant to give it to me. And she is not to know anything about it.'

'It feels like high treason!' said Mrs. Bywank. 'And she is certain to get another. But I'm sure I'd be glad there was some one there to look after things; for if she once got into that, and found young Nightingale or some of the rest with her, she'd be fit to fly. And there she comes, this minute.'

As they looked, Wych Hazel came out from the deep shadow of the trees that clothed this end of the garden approach; faultlessly dressed as usual, and with her apron gathered up full of flowers; and herself not alone. A young 'undress uniform' was by her side.

'Captain Lancaster,'—said Mrs. Bywank.

They came slowly on, talking; then stopped where the road to the main entrance branched off,—the young officer cap in hand, extremely deferential. They could see his face now; handsome, soldierly, and sunburnt; with a pleasant laugh which came readily at her words. Her face they could not see, beneath the broad garden-hat. The gentleman touched his ungloved hand to Wych Hazel's little buff gauntlet; then apparently preferred some request which was not immediately granted; so gestures seemed to say. Finally he held out his hand again; and she took from her apron a flower and placed in it; and it looked as if fingers and flower were taken together for a second. It was a pretty scene; and yet Mrs. Bywank sighed. Then with a profound reverence the young officer moved away, and Wych Hazel entered the side door. She came on along the passage singing; trilling out the gay little lullaby by virtue of which Mrs. Bywank had long ago earned her name.

'Byo, bye! baby bye! Byo, bye, little baby! Byo, byo, byo, byo'—

'Where are you, Byo dear?' she said, opening the door. Then stopped short in undoubted surprise. 'Mr. Rollo!—You two!' she said, looking from one to the other; adding mentally, 'And you have been talking about me!'

It was not just a pleased flush that came; and it was with a little needless straightening of herself up that Wych Hazel crossed the floor, and untying her apron of flowers laid it down on Mrs. Bywank's sofa. Then she was the lady of Chickaree again, graceful and composed. She came back and held out her hand.

'I hope your luncheon is ready, Byo?' she said; 'and that you have something very good to reward Mr. Rollo for his long waiting. I had no idea I was delaying any one but you, or I should have made more haste. Mrs. Bywank spoils me, Mr. Rollo, by giving me just the same welcome whether I come early or late. But I am very sorry if I have hindered you.'

'You have not hindered me,' he said smiling, and giving her hand the old sort of clasp,—'except from everything I have tried to do, for some time past.'

But that idea Miss Wych did not see fit to take up.

'What have I done,' he went on audaciously, 'to be ignored in this fashion?'

'Ignored!' she said, opening her eyes at him.

'Will you substitute another word?' said he, looking for it in the orbs so revealed. Wych Hazel turned off.

'Will you come to luncheon, sir?' she said; so exactly as if she were speaking to Mr. Falkirk, that Mrs. Bywank looked up in mute amazement.

But lunch was not to have much attention, nevertheless. Dingee began a raid on the housekeeper's room. It was:

'Mas' Nightingale, Missee Hazel.'

'Mas' May and—Miss May, ma'am.—'

'Mrs. Powder, Missee Hazel—and all de rest!' added Dingee. ' 'Spect dere ain't a livin' soul won't be there, time I get back. Miss Fisher, she done ask for Mas' Rollo. But I'se learnin' to tell the truf fustrate.'

'What is the truth about me, Dingee?' asked that gentleman. 'I should be glad to hear it.'

'Well, sir,' said Dingee, standing attention, 'she 'quire 'bout you. So I say, "Mas' Rollo, he done come dis mornin', sure,—but my young mistiss she out. So he done gone straight away from de door, ma'am." Mighty glad she never ask which way!' added Dingee with a chuckle. Wych Hazel held down her head, laughing the sweet laugh which would come now and then, in the worst of times.

'Run away,' she said, 'and say I am coming. I must go, Byo—if Mr. Rollo will excuse me. And as he came to see you, I suppose he will!'

But Mr. Rollo went away without his luncheon, after all.

CHAPTER XXXV.

FIGURES AND FAVOURS.

The very night after this affair of the ticket, came a 'German,' pure and simple, at one of the far-off houses of the neighbourhood. The daughters here were of Miss Fisher's persuasion; and among them they had arranged the whole affair. This should be a 'German,' and nothing else. Kitty Fisher was to lead, and neither quadrille nor country dance would be tolerated for a moment. Miss Kennedy found on her arrival that, for this night at least, round dances were paramount: it was such, or none. Well, she thought she could stand it, at first,—there were enough people always ready to promenade. But this was not an outdoor party, the night was too cool to make it even partially such; and to walk the whole evening in the moonlight is one thing, and in the gaslight quite another. Then Kitty Fisher was in a merciless mood,—and Hazel could not head her off with flat denials; because, though not really under orders, she well knew how much Mr. Rollo had to do with what they termed 'her new kink about dancing.' And even worse than the open charge that she was afraid to disobey, were the covert insinuations that she was anxious to please.

Then (to tell the whole truth) she did very much long for another flight among the gay flags and ribbands which made the German so lively,—she could not see the harm! Only she could never have done it with those grey eyes looking on and drawing their own false conclusions about everybody and everything. But to-night he was not on hand: the guests had all arrived long ago, and no guardian in any shape among them. And so, over persuaded by circumstances, and especially by Mr. Nightingale, who made himself rather more than a circumstance, Wych hazel gave him her hand and went forward to take her place. Under pledge, however, that if any one of the new figures came up she had leave to retire. A burst of applause and congratulation hailed her appearance; and in a very few minutes she had forgotten all but the music and the whirl of intoxication. Even partners sank into insignificance, and became only so many facilities for so much delight. Not so easily could her partners forget her,—the girlish face, sometimes grave with its own enjoyment, and then—'bright as a constellation!'—declared Mr. Simms; the grace of manner which kept its distance well; the diaphonous dress which floated around her like a golden haze; the scarlet flowers in her hair. Never had she danced, never looked, more thoroughly herself.

There are times when we get a lesson from without,—there are others when it must come from within; and Mr. Rollo, who had given the first, was now to see his work finished by the second. Wych Hazel was wrong, he was there; but he had come late, and if any of the dancers saw him they kept it hush; so that he looked on at his ward without her knowledge. But it must be noted as an instance of the perversity of Mr. Rollo's mind, that the more thoroughly he perceived the difference between Wych Hazel and her companions, the less he liked to have her among them; and every point in the dance where she escaped without even a touch upon her modest bearing, as if truly no one dared take liberties with her, made him half wild to get her out of it altogether.

Thus thinking and watching, Mr. Rollo saw two strange things take place. First came this:

A new figure was called, and the partners were to be sorted by means of long streamers of different-coloured ribbands. Wych Hazel, having already received hers, a green, stood drawing it through her fingers and chatting with Josephine Powder, whose ribband was blue. Suddenly Miss Kennedy caught away the blue ribband and began to compare its length with that of her own; measuring and re-measuring, tangling the long ends up together; until as the gentlemen came up to match colours and claim their partners, Wych Hazel hurriedly put the green streamer in Josephine's hand, and went off with Captain Lancaster. The green and blue were such convertible colours in the gaslight that no one took any notice. But Rollo saw that Wych Hazel drew a long breath as she moved away, and looked down, and did not say much for several minutes. That figure passed off with nothing unusual.

Then followed another, during which the couples were arranged in a sort of haphazard way; the ladies and gentlemen drawing up in two long opposite lines, each then to take his vis-a- vis. But where a lady was in great demand, the gentleman not strictly opposite would sometimes press down and forward, trying to catch her eye, and prove himself her partner by mere right of possession. The line of men stood with their backs towards Mr. Rollo, so that he did not at first see who it was that started forward so eagerly, taking a fair diagonal towards Miss Kennedy. But he saw her change colour, with a sort of frightened look, and then—most unlike her usual shy bearing,—saw her turn the other way, and herself take a diagonal towards what proved in this instance to be Mr. May. With a great flush of crimson at first, and then growing and remaining very pale, and dancing very languidly. And then, at the foot of the room, her eyes met those of her young guardian,—which about finished up the evening. For twice that night Wych Hazel had been within a hair's breadth of having her hand taken by the very man from whose presence she had escaped that night in July. To get rid of him she had put herself off on somebody else, and Mr. Rollo had seen it all!

'Put Molly Seaton in my place, Josephine,' she whispered, 'Mr. May is going to excuse me.'

But they crowded round her and insisted upon 'just one more.' She should not finish this figure if she disliked it,—they would stop it short: anything to keep Miss Kennedy on the floor! Would she dance 'Le Verre de Vin'?

'Never!'—with sudden energy.

'My gracious me!—how spiteful we are!' said Kitty Fisher. 'You wouldn't have to drink it. Well, then, "La Poursuite"?'

Miss Kennedy hated 'La Poursuite.'

'And—for Miss Kennedy—it is such breathless work,' said Mr. Kingsland.

'And—for Mr. Kingsland—etcetera, etcetera—' said Kitty mockingly. 'Stephen, when there is an opportunity for remarks, I'll let you know. "La Poursuite" is just the thing. You see, Hazel,' she whispered, 'the Viking can rush in and reclaim his prize, and reconciliations take place in the final tour.'

'I shall not dance it, Kitty,' said Wych Hazel steadily, though her cheeks glowed.

'No?' said Miss Fisher. 'Not to the tune of "The king shall enjoy his own again"? Well—what of "Les Mains Mysterieuses"?'

'I protest, now,' said Captain Lancaster. 'There cannot be even a pretence of mystery about Miss Kennedy's hand. It is the merest farce.'

'O, you'd like "Le Coussin," and a chance to go down on your knees!' said Miss Fisher, slightly provoked.

'Pardon me!' said Captain Lancaster. 'When I go down on my knees to Miss Kennedy, I shall want no cushion.'

'Good!' said Miss Burr.

'I vow,' said Kitty Fisher, 'you're a lover worth having. But the pretty dear'll get spoiled among you. Come—what will she choose? "Le Miroir!" Nothing to do but look at her own sweet self. Run away, Duchess, and take your seat.'

'Rather stupid, I think,' said Wych Hazel, as she went unwillingly forward,—but she was getting wild, standing there! 'I think I shall take the first one that comes, and save trouble.'

She sat down in front of the long mirror, in which she could see the whole room behind her: everybody in it, and every motion of everybody. But she really saw but one person, and he was motionless. Others, gazing in, had a marvellous pretty picture of golden gauze and scarlet flowers, and a fair young face from which the gaiety had suddenly died out. The breast of her dress was covered with 'favours;' basket and ring, bell and bouquet, a flag, a rosette, a pair of gloves,—Rollo could not identify all the details of the harlequin crew; but it looked as if Miss Kennedy had been chosen by everybody, every time! She sat still enough now.

'Look up, child!' cried Miss Fisher. 'How do you expect to know who's behind you, if you sit studying your pretty feet upon the floor? You may flirt away an angel, and welcome some gentleman in black who was not invited.'

There was a laugh at this sally; and as several gentlemen sprang eagerly forward, Kitty began to hum—' "This is the maiden all forlorn," '—but for once Hazel did not listen.

'Flirt somebody away!' she was thinking,—'I should like to see myself doing it! I shall take the very first that comes.'

But alas for good intentions in a bad place! The room was long, and some people were further off, and others close at hand, and the very first that looked over her chair was Mr. Morton! Hazel gave a toss of her handkerchief that half blew him away. And the next—yes, the very next, was the man whom she had been eluding all the evening. This time the hand moved more languidly, and her eyes never looked up, and her cheeks rivalled the scarlet flowers.

'She'll learn,—O, she'll learn!' cried Kitty Fisher. 'Never saw it better done in my life. Such a discriminating touch!'

'Is there anybody else to escape?' thought poor Hazel, her breath coming quick. And then she was so delighted to see Captain Lancaster's pleasant face, that she shewed it in her own; and the gentleman took an amount of encouragement therefrom which by no means belonged to him. He waited upon Miss Kennedy for the rest of that evening with a devotion which everybody saw except herself. No such trifles as a man's devotion got even a passing notice from her. For the girl was feeling desperate. How many times that night had she been betrayed into what she disliked and despised and had said she never would do? If Rollo had not been there, perhaps she would have felt only shame,—as it was, for the time it made her reckless. 'Le miroir' gave place to other figures, and still Miss Kennedy shewed no second wish to retire and join the lookers-on. But every time the demands of the dance made her choose a partner—when it was her woman's right to be chosen!— every time she was passed rapidly from hand to hand without even the poor power of choice, Wych Hazel avenged it on herself by the sharpest silent comments; while to her partners, she was proud, and reserved, and brilliant, and generally 'touch-me-not;' until they too were desperate—with admiration.

If Rollo was half wild in secret he had the power to keep it to himself. His demeanour was composed, and not abstracted; his attentions to others, when occasion was, for he did not seek it, as gracefully rendered as usual; he even talked; though through it all it is safe to say he lost nothing of what Wych Hazel was doing. Nobody would have guessed, not in the secret, that he had any particular attention in that room, or indeed anywhere! He did not approach Wych Hazel to oblige her to notice him; he would not give her the additional annoyance or himself the useless pain.

Yet, though severely tried that night, he was not unreasonably discouraged. He partly read Wych Hazel; or he surmised what was at the bottom of her wild gaiety; and he had great tenderness for her. A tenderness that made him grave at heart and somewhat grave outwardly; but he did not despair, and he bided his time. He was not irritated that she had broken the bonds of his words, amidst all his profound vexation. He had heard enough of people's tongues, and also knew enough of her, to understand pretty well how it was. He would not even look another remonstrance that night; only, he resolved to stay out the evening and at least see the girl safe in her carriage to go home. He would not go with her either this time.

'Hazel,' whispered Miss Fisher, in one of the figure pauses, 'slip out quietly at the side door when the break-up begins, and we'll have a lark. Stuart says he'll drive me home, if I'll coax you to go along. You can stay with me to-night. We'll go a little before everybody, you know,' she added persuasively, for Hazel hesitated. 'And the Duke need never know.'

Still Hazel was silent, balancing alternatives. Could she bear a tete-a-tete drive home with him? Could she escape it in any other way?—She gave Kitty Fisher a little nod, and whirled off in the hands of Mr. May.

But 'Duke' was nearer than they know, and specially observant of Kitty Fisher's doings. He was not near enough to catch the import of the question or proposal; but his quick hears heard 'side door'—and his eyes saw that Hazel's sign was of assent; and his wits guessed at the meaning of both. A moment's reflection made him certain of his conclusion.

Dane bit his lip at the first flash of this conclusion. He saw before him again a task which he would have given a great deal to be spared. Both from tenderness and from policy he was exceeding unwilling to thwart Wych Hazel now, most of all in this company, thereby subjecting her to renewed annoyance, inevitable and galling. Yet he never hesitated; and his old hunter's instinct abode with him, that no step which must be taken is on the whole a bad step. He left the room before the dance was finished, and was in the lobby when the party he waited for came down the broad staircase, ready for their drive. He did not present himself, but when Wych Hazel had followed Kitty Fisher out of the side door, before which Stuart's equipage stood ready, she heard a very low voice at her side, which low as it was she knew very well.

'Miss Hazel, your carriage is at the other door.'

But Kitty Fisher saw, if she did not hear.

'No room for you,' she said. 'Much as ever to get me in. Good night, Sir Duke, and pleasant dreams. The pleasant realities are all bespoke.'

'Miss Kennedy—' low at Wych Hazel's side.

'One of the aforesaid pleasant realities,' said Kitty, with her hand on Wych Hazel's shoulder. 'Come, Duchess!'

Hazel's words had been all ready, but at this speech they died away. It seemed to her as if her cheeks must light up the darkness!

'Your carriage is in waiting,' Rollo went on, in a calm low tone, which ignored Kitty and everybody else.

Still no word.

'Now come!' said Miss Fisher—'don't you play tyrant yet awhile. She's going home with me. Poor little Duchess!— daresn't say her soul's her own! What's the matter—didn't she ask you pretty?'

There was no answer to this. Rollo did not honour her with any attention. Hazel freed her shoulder from Miss Fisher's hand, and turned short about.

'There is no use contesting things,' she said, speaking with an effort which made the words sound hard-edged and abrupt. 'I shall drive home by myself to Chickaree. Good-night.' And without a look right or left, she went up the steps and across the hall into the carriage at the other door.

Rollo saw her in without a word, and turned away.

And Miss Kennedy,—as if her spite against something or somebody was not yet appeased,—began deliberately, one by one, to take the 'favours' off her dress and drop them through the open carriage window upon the road. But, let me say, she was not (like Quickear) laying a clue for herself, by which to find her way back to the 'German.' Never again.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE RUNAWAY.

The fancy ball at Moscheloo was a brilliant affair. More brilliant perhaps than in the crush and mixed confusion of city society could have been achieved. It is a great thing to have room for display. There were people enough, not too many; and almost all of them knew their business. So there was good dressing and capital acting. The evening would have been a success, even without the charades on which Mme. Lasalle laid so much stress.

Dominoes were worn for the greater amusement; and of course curiosity was busy; but more than curiosity. In the incongruous fashion common to such entertainments, a handsome Turkish janissary drew up to a figure draped in dark serge and with her whole person enveloped in a shapeless mantle of the same, which was drawn over her head and face.

'I have been puzzling myself for the last quarter of an hour,' said he, 'to find out—not who—but what you are.'

'Been successful?' said the witch.

'I confess, no. Of course you will not tell me who you are; but I beg, who do you pretend to be?'

'O, pretend!' said the witch. 'I am "a woman that hath a familiar spirit!" '

'Where did you pick up your attendant?'

'Came at my call. I suppose you have heard of Endor?'

'Have I? En—dor? Where have I heard that name? It is no place about here. 'Pon my honour, I forget.'

'In the East?' suggested the witch.

'Stupid!—I know; you are the very person I want to see. But first I wish you would resolve an old puzzle of mine—Did you bring up Samuel, honestly?—or was it all smoke?'

'Smoke proves fire.'

'Samuel would not have been in the fire.'

'He would if it was necessary,' said the witch. 'Whom do you want brought up, Mr. Nightingale?'

'Ha!' said the janissary. 'How do you know that? But perhaps you are "familiar" with everybody. Bring up Miss Kennedy?'

'Very well,' said the witch, beginning to walk slowly round him. 'But as it is not certain that Saul saw Samuel, I suppose it will not matter whether you see her?'

'It matters the whole of it! I want to see her of course. There is nobody else, in fact, whom I want to see; nor anybody else worth seeing after her. The rarest, brightest, most distracting vision that has ever been seen west of your place.'

'If there is nobody worth seeing after, you had better see everybody else first,' said the witch, pausing in her round.

'You have a familiar spirit. Tell me what she thinks about me; will you?'

The witch threw up a handful of sweet pungent dust into the air, and made another slow round about the janissary.

'Neither black nor white,'—she said oracularly, 'neither yellow nor blue; neither pea-green nor delicate mouse grey.'

'I?' said Stuart. 'Or what?'

'Either. Both.'

The janissary laughed somewhat uneasily. Just then a knight, extremely well got up in the habiliments of the 13th century, stepped near and accosted the witch in a confidential tone.

'Everybody here, I suppose, is known to you. Pray who is that very handsome, very decolletee, lady from the court of Charles the Second? Upon my word! she does it well.'

'That is Miss Fisher.'

'Well, if women knew!'—said the knight slowly. It was evident he thought himself speaking to safe ears, probably not handsome enough to be displayed. 'If they knew!' he repeated. 'Does she not do it well?'

'Does she?' said the witch. 'I was not in England just then.'

'Don't you wish you had been! It's a very fair show,'— continued the knight as he looked. 'We ought to be much obliged to the lady. Really, she leaves—nothing—to be desired! If you please, merely as a subject of curiosity, from what part of the world and time does yonder figure come? the broad- brimmed hat?'

The figure was a very fine one, by the way. His dress was a quaintly-cut suit of dark blue cloth, the edges bound with crimson, and fastened with silver buttons. White fine thread stockings were tied at the knee with crimson riband, and silver buckles were in his shoes.

'You must know,' said the witch, 'that there are several parts of the world from which I have been banished.'

'In an aesthetic point of view, I should say the edict was justified,' returned the knight, surveying the bale of brown serge before him. He passed on, and the man in the blue cloth presently took his place.

'They tell me you are a witch,' said he, speaking in rather a low tone; 'and as you see, I am a countryman. Will you have the goodness to explain to me—I suppose you understand it—what all the these people are?'

'They are people who for the present find their happiness in being other people,' said the witch, with a grave voice, in which however a laugh was somewhat imperfectly muffled. 'Like yourself, sir.'

'Like me? Quite the contrary. I was never more myself, I assure you. For that very reason I find myself not at home. Excuse my curiosity. Why, if you please, do they seek their happiness out of themselves, as it were, in this way?'

'Well,' said the witch confidentially, 'to tell you the truth, I don't know. You see I am in your predicament, and was never more myself.'

'But I thought you had a familiar spirit? I have read so much as that.'

'At your service'—said the witch.

'Then be so good as to enlighten me. I see a moving kaleidoscope view of figures—it's very pretty—but why are they all here?'

'Some because they were invited,' said the witch critically. 'And doubtless some because others were. And a good many for fun—and a few for mischief.'

'Is it the custom in this country to make mischief one of the pleasures of society?'

'Yes!' said the witch with some emphasis. 'And to tell you the truth again, that is just one of the points in which society might be improved.'

'But how do fun and mischief go along together?'

'Well, that depends,' said the witch. 'The wrong sort of mischief spoils the right sort of fun.'

'And does that often happen, among such well-dressed people as these?'

'O, where if her Grace?'—cried a gay voice in the distance. 'I've sworn to find her.'

The witch was silent a moment, then answered slowly, 'It happens—quite often.'

'Can people find nothing pleasanter to do with their time,' said the countryman, 'than to spend it in mischief? or in fun which the mischief spoils? These things you tell me sound very strange in my ears.'

'The right sort of mischief is fun,—and the right sort of fun is -not- mischief,' she said impatiently. 'And what people find in the wrong sorts, I don't know!'

'By the way,' said the countryman, 'how come you to be here? How did you escape, when Saul killed all the rest of the witches?'

'It is queer, isn't it?' she said. 'Wouldn't you have supposed I should be the first one to fall?'

'And in this country, are you using your experience to make or to mend mischief?'

'Make all I can! Are there any Sauls on hand, do you think?'

'Pray, what sort of man would you characterize by that name?'

'Well,' said she of Endor with again the hidden laugh in her voice, 'some men have a hidden weakness for witches which conflicts with their duty,—and some men don't!'

'I hope I am not a Saul, then,' said the countryman laughing, though softly; 'but in any case you are safe to take my arm for a walk round the rooms. I should like to see all that is to be seen; and perhaps you could help me to understand.'

It was not a more incongruous pair than were to be seen in many parts of the assembly. The beauty of Charles the Second's court was flirting with Rob Roy; a lady in the wonderful ruff of Elizabeth's time talked with a Roman toga; a Franciscan monk with bare feet gesticulated in front of a Swiss maiden; as the Witch of Endor sauntered through the rooms on the arm of nobody knew exactly what countryman.

'Your prejudices must be very often shocked here,' said the countryman with a smothered tone of laughter again. 'Or, I beg pardon!—has a witch any prejudices, seeing she can have no gravity?'

'What does prejudice mean in your country?'

'Much the same, I am afraid, that it does elsewhere. What are we coming to?'

Passing slowly through the rooms, they had arrived at the great saloon, at one end of which large folding doors opened into another and smaller apartment. This smaller room was hung with green baize; candelabra shed gentle light upon it from within the doors, so placed as not to be seen from the principal room; and over the folding doors was hung a hick red curtain; rolled up now.

'What is all this?'

'O, if you wait a while,' said the witch, 'you will see further transformations—that is all.'

'And what is this for?' said the countryman, pointing to the rolled-up rend curtain.

'To hide the transformed, till they are ready to be seen.'

'But it does not hide anything,' said the countryman obtusely. 'How do they get it down?'

He went examining about the door-posts, with undoubted curiosity, till he found the mechanism attached to the curtain and touched the spring. Down fell the red folds in an instant. The man drew it up again, and let it fall again, and again drew it up.

'Very good,' he said approvingly. 'Very good. We have no such clever curtains in my country. That will do very well.'

As he spoke, a bell sounded through the house. Immediately the witch escaped by a side door. Two or three others followed her; and then the rest of the company began to pour in and fill the saloon before the red curtain.

'Well, I never was so stupid in all my life!' said the court beauty. 'I might have known no other girl would come as a roll of serge!'

'And I might have known, that if I failed to recognize Miss Kennedy's hand, it could be only because it was out of sight,' said Mr. Kingsland, who by special favour wore only his own face and dress.

'You'll get a mitten from her hand—and a slap in it, if you don't look out,' said the lady.

'Better a mitten from that hand than a glove from any other,' replied Mr. Kingsland with resignation.

'Easier for you to get,' the beauty retorted. 'But did you hear of the fun we had the other night?—the best joke! We all put Seaton up to it, and he carried it off well. Dick wouldn't. Before the dancing began, he went up to Miss Kennedy and asked her with his gravest face whether she felt guardian's orders to be binding? And she coloured all up, like a child as she is, and inquired who wanted to know? So Seaton bowed down to the ground almost, and said he—

' "I had the honour of asking Mr. Rollo this afternoon, concerning the drive we spoke of; and he gave me an emphatic no. And now I am come to you to reverse the decision."

'Well, you should have seen her face!—and "What did he say, Major Seaton?" she asked. "As near as I can remember," said Seaton with another bow, "he said, Sir I cannot possibly allow Miss Kennedy to take any such drive as you propose!" '

'Well?—' said Mr. Kingsland,—'I have heavy wagers out on Miss Kennedy's dignity.'

'I don't know what you call dignity,' said the beauty,—'I didn't know at first but she would knock him down for his information,—she did, with her eyes. And then my lady Duchess drew herself up as grand as could be, and answered just as if she didn't care a snap,—"Did Mr. Rollo say that, Major Seaton? Then I certainly shall not go." '

Mr. Kingsland clapped his hands softly. 'Safe yet,' he said. 'But where did Kitty pick up that name for her?' he added, turning to his next neighbour. 'You are in the way of such titles.'

'Kitty won't tell,' the lady answered, an elaborate Queen Elizabeth. 'Not at present. She found out nobody understood, but Miss Kennedy does, so now she holds it over Miss Kennedy's head that she will tell. That is the way she got her before the glass the other night.'

'The tenderness these gentle creatures have for each other!' said Mr. Kingsland.

Meantime a bustling crowd had been pouring in and filling the saloon, and there began to be a cry for silence. The curtain was down; by whom dropped no one knew; but now it was raised again by the proper attendants, and the sight of the cool green little stage brought people to their good behaviour. The silence of expectancy spread through the assembly.

Behind the scenes there was a trifle of delay.

'My dear child,' Mme. Lasalle whispered to the ci-devant witch of Endor, 'Mr. Lasalle is in no condition to act with you as he promised. Ill; really ill, you know. We must take some one else. Standing about with bare feet don't agree with his constitution. It won't matter.'

'It matters very much!' said Wych Hazel. 'O, well—just leave that charade out. There are enough more.'

'Indeed there are not!' exclaimed her hostess. 'We cannot spare this. Indeed I doubt if any other will be worth presenting after it. My dear, it makes no difference! and you are ready, and Stuart is ready, and the people are waiting. You must not fail me at the pinch, Hazel. Go on and do your prettiest, for my sake.'

'Not with Mr. Nightingale. I will have little Jemmy Seaton, then. He is tall enough.'

'He couldn't do it. Nonsense, my dear! you don't mean that there is anything serious in it? It is only a play, and a short one too; and Stuart will be, privately, a great improvement on Mr. Lasalle, who wouldn't have done it with spirit enough; as why should he? Come, go on! Stuart is not worse to play with than another, is he? Come! there's Mr. Brandevin waiting for you. He's capital!'

There was no time to debate the matter; no time to make further changes; everybody was waiting; Miss Kennedy had to yield.

The first act was on this fashion. An old man in the blouse of a Normandy peasant sat smoking his pipe. Enter to him his daughter, a lovely peasant girl; Wych Hazel to wit. The father spoke in French; the daughter mingled French and English in her talk very prettily. There was some dumb show of serving him; and then the old man got up to go out, charging his daughter in the severest manner to admit no company in his absence. Scarcely is he gone, when enter on the other side a smart young man in the same peasant dress. Words here were not audible. In dumb show the young man made protestations of devotion, begged for his mistress's hand and kissed it with great fervour; and appeared to be carrying on a lively suit to the damsel. Now nothing could have been prettier than the picture and the pantomime. Stuart kept his face away from the audience; Wych Hazel was revealed, and in the coy, blushing maidenly dignity and confusion which suited the character and occasion, was a tableau worth looking at. Well looked at, and in deep silence of the company; till suddenly the growling old French father is heard coming back again. The peasant starts to his feet, the girl sits down in terror.

'What shall I do?' he cries, and she echoes,—'What shall he do? What shall he do?'

Then came confused answers from the spectators:—'Bolt, old fellow!'—'Escape!'—'Fly!'—'Run!'—and the last word being taken up and re-echoed, 'Run! run!'—he did run; ran out and then ran in and across the stage again; finally out of sight; and drop the curtain. The burst of applause was tremendous.

'You'll have to go on, you know, if that keeps up,' said Stuart behind the scenes; 'and I don't wonder. Here, Mr. Brandevin, go in and stop them!'

The next scene was also very well done. The old French gentleman was alone, and had it all to perform by himself. He began with calling his daughter, in various discordant keys, and with such a variety of impatient and exasperated intonation, that the whole room was full of laughter. His daughter not appearing nor answering, he next instituted a make-believe search for her, feigning to go into the kitchen, the buttery, her bedroom. Not finding her, and making a great deal of amusement for the spectators by the way, he at last comes back and asks in a deploring tone, 'Where is she?'

Cries of 'Off!'—'Gone!'—'Sloped!'—'Away!' were such a medley that nobody professed to be able yet to make out the word. The curtain fell again.

'You are very stupid,' said Mme. Lasalle. 'It is as plain as possible.'

'It will be, when we see the rest,' said somebody. 'No, I don't think it is, either.'

For as he spoke, the curtain rose upon an old clergyman, busy with his books at a table with a lamp. He had a wig, and looked very venerable indeed. Presently to him comes, after a knock, his servant woman.

'Please, sir, here's a young couple wantin' to see ye. It's the old story, I expect.'

'Let them come, Sarah—let them come in!' says the old clergyman; 'the old story is the newest of all! Let them come,—but first help me on with my gown. So!—now you may open the door.'

Enter the old peasant's daughter and her lover. The latter confers with the old clergyman, who wheezes and puffs and is quite fussy; finally bids them stand before him in the proper position. The proper position, of course, brings the two people to face the audience, while the old clergyman's back was a little turned to them, and no loss.

Now the dislike with which Miss Kennedy had received the change of companions in this charade by no means lessened as the play went on. The first scene had annoyed her, the minute she had time to think it over during the solo of the second; and now finding herself face to face with ideas as well as people,—ideas that were not among her familiars,—was very disagreeable; all the more that Mr. Nightingale had contrived to infuse rather more spirit into his part of the performance than was absolutely needful. Wych Hazel looked unmistakeably disturbed, and her eyes never quitted the ground. The audience, quite failing to catch her mood, only applauded.

'Capital!' said General Merrick. 'Positively capital! If it was a real case, and she in momentary expectation of her father, she might look just so.'

'Or if she had accidentally escaped with the wrong person,' said Captain Lancaster, who would have rather preferred to be in Mr. Nightingale's position himself.

'No,' said one of the ladies, 'she is not afraid,—what is she?'

'She is Wych Hazel,' said Mr. Kingsland. 'Do you see what a breath came then? Not complimentary to Nightingale—but he can find somebody else to turn his head.'

Meanwhile, they all standing so, the old clergyman began his office.

'Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?' he demanded audibly enough. And Stuart's reply came clear—

'I will.'

'Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband?'

He had turned towards the pretty peasant girl who stood there with her eyes cast down, and expectation was a-tiptoe. Before the eyes were lifted, and before an answer could be returned, another actor came upon the scene. The countryman who wore the dark blue cloth bound with crimson, stepped into the group from his place at the side of the curtain. He wore his broad- brimmed hat, but removed his domino as he came upon the stage. Yet he stood so that the audience were not in position to see his face. They heard his voice.

'There is a mistake here,' he said with and excellent French accent on his English. 'This lady is a—what you call—she has no power to dispose of herself.'

The clergyman looked somewhat doubtful and astonished; he had not been prepared for this turn of the play; but it was all in keeping, the interruption came naturally, quietly; he had to meet it accordingly. Stuart's face darkened; he knew better; nevertheless for him too there was but one thing possible, to go on and play the play. His face was all in keeping, too. The anger of the one and the doubt of the other actor were all proper to the action and only helped the effect.

'Diable! what do you want here?' the young peasant exclaimed.

'What is all this, sir? what is this?' said the old minister. 'What do you here, sir?'

'I come for the lady.'

'The lady don't want to see you, you fool!' exclaimed Stuart. 'You needn't think it.'

'What authority have you here, sir, to interfere with my office?' demanded the clergyman.

'Monsieur'—said the countryman hesitating, 'Monsieur knows. This young girl is young—I represent the guardians of her. She is minor; she has no property, nor no power to marry herself; she had nothing at all. She has run away. Monsieur sees. Come, you runaway!' he went on, advancing lightly to where the young girl stood. 'Come with me! She has run away; there is no marriage to-day, sir,' he added with a touch of his hat to the old clergyman. And then, taking Wych Hazel's hand and putting it on his arm he walked her out of the room. It was not as it was few evenings ago; her hand was taken in earnest now and held, and she was obliged to go as she was led. In the little apartment which served as a green-room there were one or two attendants. Rollo walked past them with a steady, swift step which never stayed nor allowed his companion to stop, until he reached the ladies' dressing-room. It was entirely empty now. The very servants had gathered where they could see the play. Here Rollo released his charge.

The first thing she did was to seat herself on the nearest chair and look at him. Her first words were peculiar.

'If I could give you the least idea, Mr. Rollo, how exceedingly disagreeable it is to have my hand taken in that way, it is possible—I am not sure—but it is possible, you would not do it. Your hands are so strong!' she said, looking down at the little soft things in her lap. 'And my strength is not practised.'

He looked grave, but spoke very gently, bending towards her as if also considering the little hands.

'Did I act so well?' said he. 'You see that was because there was so much earnest in it.'

'What made you do it?—is everything forbidden unless I ask leave?'

'Do you want to know why I did it?'

'I did not like the play, either,' she said,—'and I did not expect—part of it. But I had promised, and straight through was the quickest way out. It would have done—everybody—too much honour to make a fuss.'

'I did nobody any honour, and I made no fuss,' said Rollo, in his old quaint fashion. 'And my way was the very quickest way out for you.'

She jumped up, with a queer little inarticulate answer, that covered all his statements.

'There will be a fuss, if I do not find a quick way back among those people,' she said, passing round him to the door. Then paused with her hand on the knob, considering something.

'Why did you do it, Mr. Rollo?'

'I will try to explain, as soon as I get an opportunity. One word,' he added, detaining her,—'Laugh it off as far as you can, down stairs, as part of the play.'

'Easy to do,' said the girl with some emphasis. 'Unfortunately I do not feel at all like laughing. If you had done me a little honour, sir, it would have been needless.'

She went first to the small dressing-room down stairs, catching up her serge and muffling herself in it once more, so that not a thread of her peasant's dress appeared; then went silently in among the crowd, a very sober witch indeed. It was a little while before she was molested. By and by, while another charade was engaging people's interest, Mme. Lasalle worked round to the muffled figure.

'My dear,' she whispered, 'who was that?'

'One of your dominoes, Madame. Acted with a good deal of spirit, didn't you think so?'

'Magnifique! But that was none of my dominoes. My dear, you will never know how lovely your representation was. But, that interruption was no part of our play, as we had planned it. How came it? Who was it? Somebody who made play to suit himself? How came it, Hazel?'

'Just what I have been trying to find out,' said the girl. 'I shall not rest till I do.' But she moved off then, and kept moving, and was soon too well taken possession of for many questions to reach her. All of her audience but two or three, took the interruption for part of the play, and were loud in their praises. Hearing and not hearing, muffled in thoughts yet more than in serge, as an actor or spectator the Witch of Endor saw the charades through, and played with her supper, and finally went out to her carriage and the dark world of night. For there was no moon this time, and stars are uncertain things.

As Stuart Nightingale came back from putting her into the carriage, he encountered his aunt.

'Well!' he said in an impatient voice, smothered as it was, 'that job's all smoke.'

'Who was it?'

'That infernal meddler, of course.'

'Rollo?'

'Who else would have dared?'

'How did he get in?'

'That you ought to know better than I. It was no fault of mine.'

'Rollo!' said Mme. Lasalle. 'And I thought I had cleverly kept him out. The tickets were not transferable. Did she let him in?'

'Not she. No doing of hers, nor liking, I promise you. I think he has settled his own business, by the way. But we can't try this on a second time, Aunt Victorine. Confound him!'

CHAPTER XXXVII.

IN A FOG.

Hazel was accompanied to her carriage of course, as usual. But when she was shut in, she heard an unwelcome voice saying to the coachman, 'Drive slowly, Reo; the night is very dark;' and immediately the carriage door was opened again, and the speaker took his seat beside her; without asking leave this time. A passing glare from the lamps of another carriage shewed her head and hands down on the window-sill, in the way she had come from Greenbush. Neither head nor hands stirred now.

Her companion was silent and let her be still, until the carriage had moved out of the Moscheloo grounds and was quietly making its way along the dark high road. Lamps flung some light right and left from the coach box; but within the darkness was deep. The reflection from trees and bushes, the gleam of fence rails, the travelling spots of illumination in the road, did not much help matters there.

'Miss Hazel,' said Rollo,—and he spoke, though very quietly, with a sort of breath of patient impatience,—'I have come with you to-night because I could not let you drive home alone such a dark night, and because I have something to say to you which will not bear to wait a half-hour longer. Can you listen to me?'

'I am listening, sir,' she said, again in a sort of dull passiveness. 'May I keep this position? I think I must be tired.'

'Are you very angry with me?' he asked gently.

'No,' she said in the same tone. 'I believe not. I wish I could be angry with people. It is the easiest way.'

'If you are not angry, give me your hand once more.'

'Are we to execute any further gyrations?'

'Give it to me, and we will see.'

Rather hesitatingly, one white glove came from the window- sill, within his reach.

'You are a queer person!' she said. 'You will neither give orders nor make me execute them, without having hold of my hand! Are you keeping watch of my pulse, so as to stop in time?'

He made no answer to that, nor spoke at all immediately. His hand closed upon the little white glove, and keeping it so, he presently said gravely,

'You and I ought to be good friends, Hazel, on several accounts;—because your father and mother were good friends of mine,—and because I love you very dearly.'

A slight motion of her part,—he could not tell whether she started, or what it was,—changed instantly to a breathless stillness. Only a timid stir of the hand, as if it meant to slip away unnoticed. But it was held too firmly for that.

'I don't know whether you know yet,' he went on after a slight pause, 'what it is to love anybody very dearly. I remember you told Gyda one day that you had never loved any one so since your mother. Certainly I have never had a right to flatter myself that I had been able to teach you what it means. If I am mistaken,—tell me.'

'Easy work!'—she might have answered again,—to tell him what she had never told herself. And particularly nice of him to choose such a place for his inquiries, where there was no possible way of exit (for her) but the coach window. What had he never tried to teach her, except to mind? And of course she never knew anything about—anything! But there Hazel shifted her ground, and felt herself growing frightened, and certainly wished her new guardian a hundred miles away. What did he mean?—was he only sounding her, as Mr. Falkirk did sometimes? If so, he might just find out for himself!—With which clear view of the case, Wych Hazel set her foot (mentally) on all troublesome possibilities, and sat listening to hear her hear beat; and wondered how many statements of fact Mr. Rollo was going to make, and at what point in the list truth would oblige her to start up and confront him?

He had paused a little, to give room for the answer he did not expect. Seeing it came not, with a slight hastily drawn breath he went on again.

'In the mean time you have heard what you never ought to have heard,—or not for a long time; and through the same good agency other people have heard it too; and you are placed in a position almost to hate the sight of me, and shrink from the sound of my name; and you are looking upon your father's will as binding you to a sort of slavery. I am not going to stand this a minute longer.

'Hazel—unless you can love me dearly, my privileges as guardian would be of no use to me. I would not take advantage of them if I could. I would not have you on any other terms. And I certainly am not going to be a clog upon your happiness. I have made up my mind to keep my office, nominally, for one year; practically I mean to leave you very much to Mr. Falkirk. I will keep it for a year. At the end of the year, you shall tell me whether I shall give it up or keep it longer. But if longer, it will be for ever. And I warn you, if you give it to me then, it will be a closer and sweeter guardianship than you have had yet, Hazel. I will keep what I love, so dearly and absolutely as I love her. But I shall not speak to you again on this subject until the year's end. You need not be afraid. I mean to see you and to let you see me; but you will hear no more about this till the time comes.'

No answer, even then, only the trembling of the little hand. Dark as it was, she turned her head yet more away, laying her other cheek upon the window.

'Are we friends now?' he said somewhat lower.

'Mr. Rollo'—she began. But the tremor had found its way to the girl's voice, and she broke off short.

'Well?' said he. 'That is one of the parties. I meant, Mr. Rollo and Hazel.'

'Be quiet!' she said impatiently,—'and let me speak.' But what Hazel wanted to say, did not immediately appear.

He answered by a clasp of her hand, and waited.

'I am quiet,'—he suggested at length.

The girl made a desperate effort, and lifted up her head, and sat back in her place, to answer; but managing her voice very much like spun glass, which might give way in the using; and evidently choosing her words with great care, every now and then just missing the wrong one.

'You go on making statements,' she said, catching her breath, 'and I—have taken up none of them, because I cannot,—because if,—I mean, I have let them all pass, Mr. Rollo.'—If truth demanded a greater sacrifice just then, it could not be because this one was small.

'I know,' he answered. 'Will you do better now? What mistake has your silence led me into, or left me in?'

'I said nothing about mistakes. And I always do as well as I can at first,' said Hazel, with a touch of the same impatience.

'My statements did not call for an answer. But I am going to say some other things to which I do want an answer. Shall I go on?'

'You know what they are,' she said.

'I want you,' he went on, speaking slowly and deliberately, 'to give me your promise that you will not waltz any more until the year is out that I spoke of.'

She answered presently, speaking in a measured sort of way, 'That is one thing. The other?'

'I want your promise to the first.'

'Suppose I am not ready to give it?'

'I ask for it, all the same.'

Again she sorted her words.

'Well then—I am not ready,—I mean, not willing. And do not you see—at least, I mean, you do not see—how—unreasoning a request it is?' The adjective gave her some trouble.

'Not unreasonable?'

'I said nothing about reasonable.'

'No. But I must have your promise. If you knew the world better, it would not be necessary for me to make the request; I know that; but the fact that you are—simple as a wild lily,— does not make me willing to see the wild lily lose any of its charm. Neither will I, Hazel, as long as I have the care of it. So long as you are even in idea mine, no man shall—touch you, again, as I saw it last night! You are precious to me beyond such a possibility. Give me your promise.'

'You shall not talk to me so!' she cried, shrinking off in the old fashion. 'I will not let you! You have done it before. And I tell you that I never—touch anybody—except with the tip end of my glove!'

'No more than the wild lily does. But, Hazel, no one shall touch the lily, while I have care of it!' He spoke in the low tone of determination. Hazel did not answer.

'Promise me!' he said again, when he found that she was silent.

'By your own shewing it is hardly needed,' she said. 'I suppose obedience will do as well.'

'Let it be a matter of grace, not of obligation.'

'There is some grace in obedience. Why do you want a promise?'

'To make the matter certain. Else you may be tempted, or cajoled, into what—if you knew better—you would never do. You will know better by and by. Meanwhile I stand in the way. Come! give me the promise!'

There was a little bit of laugh at that, saying various things.

'I shall not be cajoled,' she said. 'But I will not make promises.'

'How then will you make me secure that what I do not wish shall not be done?'

'It is not a matter about which I am anxious, sir,' said Miss Wych coolly.

'I am not anxious,' he said very quietly, 'because one way or another I will be secure. Do you think I can hold you in my heart as I do, and suffer other men to approach you as I saw it last night? Never again, Hazel!'

Dead silence on the lady's part; this 'mixed-up' style of remark being, as she found, extremely hard to answer.

'What shall I do?' he said gently.

'About what, sir?'

'Making myself secure?'

'I do not know,' said Wych Hazel. 'No suggestion occurs to me that would be worth your consideration.'

'I spoke to you once, some time ago, on the abstract grounds of the question we have under discussion. These, being only a wild lily, you did not comprehend. You do not love me, or you would give me my promise fast enough on other grounds. You leave me a very difficult way. You leave me no way but to take measures to remove you from temptation. Is not that less pleasant, Hazel, than to give me the promise?'

She was silent for several minutes; not pondering the question, but fighting the pain. To be forced into anything,— to have him take that tone with her!—

'How will you do it?' she said.

He hesitated and then answered gently,

'You need not ask me that. You will not make it necessary.'

'Not ask?' said Wych Hazel rousing up. 'Of course I ask! Do you expect to frighten me off my feet with a mere impersonal "it"?'—Then with a laugh which somehow told merely of pain, she added: 'You might cut short my allowance, and stint me in slippers,—only that unfortunately the allowance is a fixed fact.'

'I did not mean to threaten,' he said in a voice that certainly spoke of pain on his own part. 'Is it so much to promise, Hazel?'