The answer tarried, for Mr. Falkirk came in, and perhaps Rollo forgot it, or knew that Wych Hazel had; for it was never given. He entered into talk with Mr. Falkirk; and did his part well through the rest of the evening. Then, Mr. Falkirk expressing the surmise, it was hardly put in the form of a hope, that they would see him to breakfast or dinner, Rollo averred that he was going immediately home. He had done his work in town, and could not tarry. No remark from the lady of the house met that. Indeed she had been sitting in the silentest of moods, letting the gentlemen talk; having enough to think of and observe. For absence does change, even an intimate friend, and both lifts and drops a veil. Old characteristics stand out with new clearness; old graces of mind or manner strike one afresh; but the old familiarity which once in a sort took possession of all this, is now withdrawn a little,—we stand off and look. And so, secretly, modestly, shyly, Wych Hazel studied her young guardian that night. But when he had risen to go, the faintest little touch from one of her finger tips drew him a step aside.
'I said I would study that,' she began. 'But it seems to me you explained it all as you went along. What is there left to study?'
The grave penetrating eyes she met and had to meet once, gave all the needed force to his answer.—'Your part, Miss Hazel.' He stood looking at her a minute; and then he went away.
If when Rollo had entered he room where she was, that evening, the instant feeling had been that he must come often: perhaps the after feeling was that he could not stand much of this doubtful and neutral intercourse. For he did as he had promised; left her, practically, to Mr. Falkirk, and came not to town again during all the rest of that winter.
CHAPTER XLII.
STUDY.
It seemed to Hazel, that in these days there was no end to the thinking she had to do; and if Mr. Rollo had only known, she remarked to herself, he need not have been at the trouble to point out new lines of study. The mere sight of him for two hours had put her head in a tangle that it would take her a month to clear away. Some of the questions indeed had started up under the conversation of Mrs. Coles; but with them now came others, all wrapped round and twisted in; and instead of dreamily watching the fire in her twilight musings, she began now to spend them with her cheek on her book, or her head dropped on her hands, an impatient little sigh now and then bearing witness to the depth of the difficulties in which she was plunged. What was foremost among the subjects of her musings?—perhaps this strange new talk of Mr. Rollo's, with the whole new world of work and interest and consecration which had opened before him. It made her sober,—it brought back the old lonely feelings which of late (since she knew herself to belong to somebody 'in idea') had somewhat passed out of sight. He was beginning a new, glad life; growing wiser and better than she; making himself a blessing, whereas she was only a care. What could she do for him any more?—would he even want her any more? given up now to these new ways of which she knew nothing, and in which somebody else might suit him better—say Primrose? But at that, Miss Wych started up and stirred the fire energetically, and then came back to her musings.
What did she care, anyhow? She passed that question, turned it round, and took it up in another shape. How would she bear to be all her life under orders? in 'closer' guardianship?—and there the word 'sweeter' flashed in, confusingly. But that was not business. Did she—that is, could she—like him well enough to like to give up her own way? Answer, a prompt negative. Never!—Not if she liked him ten times more than—but it is awkward dealing with unknown quantities: Hazel sheered off. Suppose she didn't like it—could she do it? do it so that he would never find out what it cost her? do it to give him pleasure? do it because it was his right? Waiving her own pleasure, pushing aside her own will? Could she do it?—Well, there was not the least hope that she would wish to do it. She should always like her own best: no doubt of that.
Then could she (perhaps) learn such trust in his judgment, as would turn her own will round?—As hopeless as the other. Sometimes, of course, he might be right,—by a great stretch of leniency Miss Wych allowed so far,—sometimes, it was certain, she would. Well: could she give his judgment as well as his will the right of way? For unless she could, Wych hazel felt quite sure of one thing: she should never be happy a minute in such guardianship. She had not dared to give herself a possible reason for liking it in the old times,—could she do it, now that she dared? Was she willing to give up, sometimes or always, to just that one person in all the world?—turning her bonds into bracelets, and wearing them royally? And there her thoughts went down to the real bracelet on her arm, and its motto, so suddenly become his:
'In hope of eternal life.'—Would he care for her any more?