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?
O how thoughts tired themselves, toiling round these points!
and slowly uprising from them came yet another, which filled the air. What was she to say at the year"s end?--or, if _this_ were the year"s end, what would she say now?--supposing Mr.
Rollo still cared what she said. But that last question must be studied by and by. Mr. Rollo would have been amused, may be, and may be a little touched, if he had known the ogre-like shapes in which the girl conjured him up, just to see if she could endure him _so:_ putting herself to superhuman tests. But her imagination played tricks, after all; for every Afrite came up with a face and voice before which she yielded, perforce; and even her favourite scene of standing still as the bay and having him snap his fingers for her, ended one day in a laugh, as she thought what she would say if he ever _did_.
Then finding she had got very far beyond limits, Hazel coloured furiously and ran away from her thoughts. But they hindered her new study, and interrupted it; and the study brought up the new pain; only slowly through it all, one thing gradually grew clear, helped on by her pain perhaps as much as anything: she would rather belong to somebody than not--if somebody wanted her! And there was only one somebody in the world, of whom that was true.
Whereupon, with characteristic waywardness, Miss Wych at once gave up her recluse life; accepted invitations, and pulled Mr.
Falkirk into a round of outdoor gaiety that nearly turned his head. Trying, perhaps, to test her discoveries, or to get rid of her thoughts; or to prove to herself conclusively that she did not wish for any more visits from Chickaree.
And so Wych Hazel knew her own secret.