North of Fifty-Three | Page 8

The expression on his face as he drew back and stanched
his bleeding nose had momentarily chilled her.
"He looked perfectly devilish," she told herself. "My, I loathe that man!
He is dangerous. Marry him? The idea!"
She knew that she must have cut him deeply in a man's tenderest
spot--his self-esteem. But just how well she had gauged the look and
possibilities of Mr. Andrew Bush, Hazel scarcely realized.
"I won't tell Jack," she reflected. "He'd probably want to thrash him.
And that would stir up a lot of horrid talk. Dear me, that's one
experience I don't want repeated. I wonder if he made court to his first
wife in that high-handed, love-me-or-I'll-beat-you-to-death fashion?"
She laughed when she caught herself scrubbing vigorously with her
handkerchief at the place where his lips had touched her cheek. She
was primitive enough in her instincts to feel a trifle glad of having
retaliated in what her training compelled her to consider a "perfectly
hoydenish" manner. But she could not deny that it had proved
wonderfully effective.
CHAPTER III
"I DO GIVE AND BEQUEATH"
When Jack Barrow called again, which happened to be that very
evening, Hazel told him simply that she had left Harrington & Bush,
without entering into any explanation except the general one that she
had found it impossible to get on with Mr. Bush in her new position.
And Jack, being more concerned with her than with her work, gave the
matter scant consideration.
This was on a Friday. The next forenoon Hazel went downtown. When
she returned, a little before eleven, the maid of all work was putting the
last touches to her room. The girl pointed to an oblong package on a
chair.

"That came for you a little while ago, Miss Weir," she said. "Mr. Bush's
carriage brought it."
"Mr. Bush's carriage!" Hazel echoed.
"Yes'm. Regular swell turnout, with a footman in brown livery. My,
you could see the girls peeking all along the square when it stopped at
our door. It quite flustered the missus."
The girl lingered a second, curiosity writ large on her countenance.
Plainly she wished to discover what Miss Hazel Weir would be getting
in a package that was delivered in so aristocratic a manner. But Hazel
was in no mood to gratify any one's curiosity. She was angry at the
presumption of Mr. Andrew Bush. It was an excellent way of
subjecting her to remark. And it did not soothe her to recollect that he
had threatened that very thing.
She drew off her gloves, and, laying aside her hat, picked up a
newspaper, and began to read. The girl, with no excuse for lingering,
reluctantly gathered up her broom and dustpan, and departed. When she
was gone, and not till then, Miss Weir investigated the parcel.
Roses--two dozen long-stemmed La Frances--filled the room with their
delicate odor when she removed the pasteboard cover. And set
edgewise among the stems she found his card. Miss Weir turned up her
small nose.
"I wonder if he sends these as a sort of peace offering?" she snorted. "I
wonder if a few hours of reflection has made him realize just how
exceedingly caddish he acted? Well, Mr. Bush, I'll return your
unwelcome gift--though they are beautiful flowers."
And she did forthwith, squandering forty cents on a messenger boy to
deliver them to Mr. Bush at his office. She wished him to labor under
no misapprehension as to her attitude.
The next day--Sunday--she spent with Jack Barrow on a visit to his
cousin in a near-by town. They parted, as was their custom, at the door.

It was still early in the evening--eight-thirty, or thereabout--and Hazel
went into the parlor on the first floor. Mr. Stout and one of her boarders
sat there chatting, and at Hazel's entrance the landlady greeted her with
a startling bit of news:
"Evenin', Miss Weir. 'Ave you 'eard about Mr. Bush, pore gentleman?"
Mrs. Stout was very English.
"Mr. Bush? No. What about him?" Hazel resented Mr. Bush, his name,
and his affairs being brought to her attention at every turn. She desired
nothing so much since that scene in the office as to ignore his
existence.
"'E was 'urt shockin' bad this awft'noon," Mrs. Stout related. "Out
'orseback ridin', and 'is 'orse ran away with 'im, and fell on 'im. Fell all
of a 'eap, they say. Terrible--terrible! The pore man isn't expected to
live. 'Is back's broke, they say. W'at a pity! Shockin' accident, indeed."
Miss Weir voiced perfunctory sympathy, as was expected of her, seeing
that she was an employee of the firm--or had been lately. But close
upon that she escaped to her own room. She did not relish sitting there
discussing Mr. Andrew Bush. Hazel lacked nothing of womanly
sympathy, but he had