Wych Hazel Part 55

But motions that were pretty to look at followed: each couple in turn pa.s.sing through an avenue of little coloured flags, which held out by the motionless couples on either side, met and crossed over the heads of the dancers. Down came Stuart Nightingale and Miss Fisher, and Mr. Burr and Phinny Powder, and Major Seaton and Miss May,--Wych Hazel looked on, smiling, and with a stir of her little right foot. How often she had come down just so! Then began a figure that she did not know: they were going to 'practise,' Kitty Fisher called out, recommending her to come.

'You won't know how next time.'

'Thank you, I can learn by looking on.'

And so she stood still and watched. Watched to see the ladies, armed with long reins and a whip, driving their partners cheerfully from point to point, with appropriate gestures and sounds and frolic. The little bells tinkled gleefully, the many-coloured leading-strings mingled in a kaleidoscope pattern.

'Symbolical,' Mr. Kingsland remarked, standing near. 'This is the "Bridle" figure, Miss Kennedy.'

'Unbridled' would be a better name, Miss Kennedy thought, but she said not a word; only her lips curled disdainfully. But, 'driving men is easy work,' as Phinney Powder said, and so this 'practice' soon gave way to another still more striking.

The ladies ranged themselves, standing well apart from each other, and among the gentlemen was a general flutter of white handkerchiefs. What were they going to do? 'Bonds' was the word that occurred to Hazel this time, as she stood leaning a little forward in interested expectation. And so it proved,-- but not just as she had expected. To be tied by the hand would be bad enough, but by the foot!--and yet,--yes, certainly Major Seaton's handkerchief was round Kitty Fisher's pretty ankle--to the discomfiture of several other handkerchiefs of like intentions,--and Miss Powder had Stuart Nightingale at her feet,--and Phinny--

But who did it for whom, Wych Hazel scarcely thought until afterwards. She looked on for a minute at the scuffling, laughing, romping; then drew back with a deep flush.

'Did they think they could do that with _me!_' she said, under her breath. And what could her companion do but feel ashamed of every man he had ever seen do 'that' for any woman?

The course of things was changed after a time by Mr.

Nightingale's coming up and asking her to walk. He had made over the 'practice' to somebody else, professing that he knew the figures already. Perhaps somewhat in his companion's manner struck him, for he remarked, quite philosophically, as they moved into the shadow of the shrubbery, that 'society is a problem!'

'Is it?' said Hazel, to whom problems (out of books) were as yet in a happy distance. 'What needs solution, Mr.

Nightingale?'

'Is it possible you do not see?'

'Not a bit. I did not know society was deep enough to be called a problem.'

' "Glissez, mortels; n'appuyez pas." '

'Well, people do not,' said Wych Hazel.

'And had best not. Nothing is more graceful than the state of bold and brave innocence.'

Hazel mused a little at that, half unconsciously getting up a problem of her own. Was he talking of _her_ 'innocence?' did he, too, see things which she did not? And was this another warning? Yet no one more forward to draw her into round dances than Stuart Nightingale. He began again in another tone.

'You are determined not to dance to-night?'

'Yes. Am I part of the problem?'

He laughed a little. 'You would not be a true woman if you were not.'

'You may as well give up trying to understand _me_,' said Wych Hazel, gaily. 'Mr. Falkirk and I have been at it for years, and the puzzle is a puzzle yet.'

'Confess, you like to be a puzzle.'

'One may as well make the best of one's natural advantages,'

said Hazel with a laugh. 'I suppose if I were what people call "limpid," and "transparent," I might like that too.' But the clear girlish purity of the depths referred to was as transparent as the Summer blue.

'Have you ever been told,' said Stuart, lowering his voice a little, 'of your very remarkable resemblance to one of the greatest puzzles of history?'

'No,' said Hazel. 'And you do not know me well enough to tell what I resemble.'

'Pardon me--pardon me! Do you think I could not have told, after that one first meeting in the wood?'

'If you could,' said Wych Hazel, with a lift of her eyebrows, 'I cannot imagine how society can be a problem to you, Mr.

Nightingale.'

'There never was but one woman, of those whose pictures have come down to us, whose mouth could be at once so mischievous and so sweet. You are aware the mouth is the index to the character?'

Hazel answered with some reserve (direct compliments always gave her a check)

'No--Yes. I have heard people say so.'

'And you know the woman I mean?'

'She is bound to be a witch!--but further than that--'

'The likeness is really remarkable,' said Stuart, seriously; 'you have the Mary Stuart brow exactly, and the mouth, as I said; and I think, as far as difference of colour admits similarity of effect, the eyes have the same trick of power. I suppose you like power?'

'I suppose I should! Mr. Falkirk ties up all my power, and labels it "Edge tools," ' said Wych Hazel.

'I suppose it cuts its way out, and so justifies him. Don't you have your own way generally?'

'Well, between taking it, and coaxing it out, and refusing to take any other, I do have it sometimes,' said Wych Hazel.

'Is Mr. Falkirk much of an ogre? I do not know him. Difficult to manage?'

'He thinks I am,' said Wych Hazel. 'No, he is not an ogre at all, except officially.'

'Does he pretend to exercise much supervision over your doings?'

'Pretend?' she repeated. 'He has the right, Mr. Nightingale.

And did ever a man have a right and not give it an airing now and then?'

Stuart laughed, and laughed again. 'Don't be hard on us!' he pleaded.

'Truth is not slander.'

'But are not women as fond of power, and wont to exercise it as ruthlessly, as ever men are?'

'It is not a strong power, if they do.'

'Take care,' said Stuart. 'Honour bright!--while Mr. Falkirk thinks things go according to his will, don't they really go by yours?'

'No,' said Wych Hazel, 'when he _thinks_ they do, they _do_,--when they do not, he knows it.'

'Then you are _not_ free. That is hard!--hard upon you. A mother's authority is one thing; a guardian's, I should think, is something very different. Does he interfere with your dancing?'

'No.'--Hazel herself hardly knew why words suddenly became scarce.