Wych Hazel Part 2

'What is it to me if Mr. Falkirk chooses to get up over night?'

'But the stage, ma'am!'

'The stage can wait.'

'The stage won't, Miss Hazel,' said Mrs. Saddler, earnestly.

'And Gotham says it's only a question of time whether we can catch it now.'

Something in these last words had an arousing power, for the girl laughed out.

'Mrs. Saddler, how _can_ one wake up, with the certainty of seeing a tallow candle?'

'Dear me,' said Mrs. Saddler hurrying to light two tall sperms, 'if _that's_ all, Miss Hazel--'

'That's not all. What's the matter with Mr. Falkirk this morning?'

'Why nothing, ma'am. Only he said you wanted to take the first stage to Chickaree.'

'Which I didn't, and don't.'

'And Gotham says,' pursued Mrs. Saddler, 'that if it is the first, ma'am, we'll save a day to get to Chickaree on Thursday.'

Whereupon, Wych Hazel sprung at once into a state of physical and mental action which nearly blew Mrs. Saddler away.

'Look,' she said, tossing the curls over her comb,--'there's my new travelling dress on the chair.'

'Another new travelling dress!' said Mrs. Saddler with upraised hands.

'And the hat ribbands match,' said Wych Hazel, 'and the gloves. And the veil is a shade lighter. Everything matches everything, and everything matches me. You never saw my match before, did you Mrs. Saddler?'

'Dear me! Miss Hazel,' said the good woman again. 'You do talk so wonderful!'

It was splendid to see her look of dismay, and amus.e.m.e.nt, and admiration, all in one, and to catch a glimpse of the other face--fun and mischief and beauty, all in one too! To put on the new dress, to fit on the new gloves,--Wych Hazel went down to Mr. Falkirk in admirable spirits.

Mr. Falkirk looked gloomy. As indeed anything might, in that hall; with the front door standing open, and one lamp burning till day should come; and the chill air streaming in. Mr.

Falkirk paced up and down with the air of a man prepared for the worst. He shook Wych Hazel grimly by the hand, and she laughed out,

'How charming it is, sir? But where's breakfast?'

'Breakfast, Miss Hazel,' said her guardian solemnly, 'is never, so far as I can learn, taken by people setting out to seek their fortune. It is generally supposed that such people rarely have breakfast at all.'

'Very well, sir,--I am ready,'--and in another minute they were on their way, pa.s.sing through the street of the little village, and then out on the open road, until after a half- hour's drive they entered another small settlement and drew up before its chief inn. Bustle enough here,--lamps in the hall and on the steps; lamps in the parlours; lamps running up and down the yards and road and dimly disclosing the outlines of a thorough bred stage coach and four horses, with the various figures pertaining thereto. Steadily the dawn came creeping up; the morning air--raw and damp--floated off the horses'

tails, and flickered the lights, and even handled Wych Hazel's new veil. I think nothing but the new travelling dress kept her from shivering, as they went up the inn steps. People seeking their fortunes may at least _want_ their breakfast.

But Mr. Falkirk was perverse. As they entered the hall, a waiter threw open the door into the long breakfast room-- delicious with its fire and lights and coffee--(neither did the voices sound ill), but Mr. Falkirk stopped short.

'Is that the only fire you've got? I want breakfast in a private room.'

Now Mr. Falkirk's tone was sometimes one that n.o.body would think of answering in words,--of course, the waiter could do nothing but wheel about and open another door next to the first.

'Ah!' Mr. Falkirk said with immense satisfaction, as they stepped in.

'Ah!'--repeated his ward rather mockingly. 'Mr. Falkirk, this room is cold.'

Mr. Falkirk took the poker and gave the fire such a punch that it must have blazed uninterruptedly for half a day after.

'Cold, my dear?' he said beamingly--'no one can be cold long before such a fire as that. And breakfast will be here in a moment. If it comes before I get back, don't wait for me. How well your dress looks!'

'And I?--Mr. Falkirk,' said Wych Hazel.

'Why that's a matter of taste, my dear, of course. Some people you know are partial to black eyes--which yours are not. Others again--Ah, here is breakfast,--Now my dear, eat as much as you can,--you know we may not have any breakfast to-morrow. On a search after fortune, you never can tell.'

And helping her to an extraordinary quant.i.ty of everything on the tray, Mr. Falkirk at once went off and left her to dispose of it all alone. And of course he went straight into the next room. Didn't she know he would?--and didn't she hear the duo that greeted him?--'What, Mr. Falkirk!'--'Sir, your most obedient!'--and her guardian's double reply--'Back again, eh?'-- and 'Your most obedient, Mr. Kingsland.' Wych Hazel felt provoked enough not to eat another mouthful. Then up came the stage, rumbling along to the front door; and as it came, in rushed Mr. Falkirk, poured out a cup of scalding coffee and swallowed it without a moment's hesitation.

'Coach, sir!' said the waiter opening the door.

'Coach, my dear?' repeated her guardian, taking her arm and whisking her down the hall and into the stage, before the pa.s.sengers in the long room could have laid down their knives.

'What is the use of being in such a hurry, Mr. Falkirk?' she said at last; much tried at being tossed gently into the stage like a brown parcel--(which to be sure she was, but that made no difference).

'My dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, solemnly, "there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.' "

And with that he drew off his glove, leaned back, and pa.s.sed his hand over his brow with the air of a man who had in some shape achieved success.

By this time the stream of pa.s.sengers began to pour forth; and the coach creaked and swung to and fro, as trunk after trunk and man after man found their way up to the roof. Then the door was flung open, and other pa.s.sengers tumbled in, the lantern flashing dimly upon their faces and coats. Three and three more,--and another, but his progress was stayed.

'Not in here, sir,' said Mr. Falkirk politely, 'I have paid for three seats.'

'There ain't another seat,' says the driver,--'and he ain't a big man, sir--guess maybe you'll let him have a corner--we'll make it all right, sir.' He had a corner,--and so did our heroine! The new dress! Never mind; the sooner this went the sooner she would get another. And they rolled off, sweetly and silently, upon the country road. The morning was lovely. Light scarfs of fog floated about the mountain tops, light veils of cloud just mystified the sky; the tree-tops glittered with dew, the birds flew in and out; and through an open corner of her leathern curtain Wych Hazel peered out, gazing at the new world wherein she was going to seek her fortune.

'Spend the Summer at Chickaree, Mr. Falkirk?' said a voice from the further end of the coach. Wych Hazel drew in her head and her attention, and sat back to listen.

'I did not say I was going there,' said her guardian dryly.

'Two and two make four, my good sir. There's not even a sign of a place of entertainment between Stone Bridge and Crocus, and Stone Bridge you have confessed to.'

'You consider places of entertainment among the essentials then?'

'Why, in some cases,' said the gentleman, with a suspicious glance at Wych Hazel's brown veil.

'How long is it since you were there, Mr. Falkirk?' inquired Mr. Kingsland's next neighbour.

The speaker was a younger man than Mr. Kingsland, and whereas that gentleman was a dandy, this one's dress was just one remove from that, and therefore faultless. About his face, so far off as the other end of the stage, there seemed nothing remarkable; it was grave, rather concise in its indications; but the voice prepared you for what a smile declared,--a nature joyous and unembittered; a spirit pure and honest and keen.

Even Wych Hazel's guardian softened at his look.

'Pray, Mr. Falkirk?' said the other stranger, 'what is supposed to be the origin of the word "veil"?'

'I never heard,' said Mr. Falkirk dryly. 'Lost in the early records of civilization.'