'I am in a strait. Could you spend the night here in any tolerable comfort, Wych, do you suppose?'
'I am at a loss to understand your system of arithmetic,' observed Rollo.
'Simple addition. I suppose, sir, I could spend the night here where other human creatures can. And as I shall take Phoebe with me when I go, will you please arrange with her father? I told her she could have what wages she liked.'
'What shall I arrange with her father, Miss Hazel?'
'Why—anything he wants arranged, sir. What the wages shall be.'
'Your scheme of travel may be continued to any extent, Miss Hazel, if you continue to do business on an equally logical plan.'
She laughed, a good, honest, merry little laugh, but further direct reply made none.
'That puff of displeasure blows me fairly away!' she said, jumping up and floating off to the mill door like any thistle down, on the tips of her toes.
'Is it possible to make any comfortable arrangement for her at the miller's house?' Mr. Falkirk asked in a low tone.
'Not if she be "true princess," ' said Rollo with a smile.'There would be more than a few vegetables between MissKennedy and comfort.'——He hesitated, and then suddenly askedWych if she were tired? Certainly her face told of somefatigue, but the busy spirit was unconquered, and she said,'No—not very much.'
'I am going on to Dr. Maryland's myself—with the miller's horse and wagon, which I engaged provisionally. If Miss Kennedy will trust herself to me—perhaps it would be less wearisome than to stay here; and it would make a jubilee at Dr. Maryland's as you know, sir. I will send the wagon back for you to-morrow, in that case.'
'It is for her to say!' Mr. Falkirk answered, rather gloomily. 'It is a day of adventures, Wych—will you go to meet them, or will you wait for them? There's no escape either way.' He smiled a little at his ward as he spoke. But her eyes spoke back only amazement.
'I shall stay with you, sir, of course.' Clearly Miss Kennedy thought her guardian had taken leave of his senses.
'What if you take the wagon to Dr. Maryland's then, sir; Miss Kennedy can hardly spend the night here. Even a twenty-five mile drive is better.'
But Mr. Falkirk had reasons of his own for negativing that plan, and negatived it accordingly.
'Go with me, then,' said Rollo, turning to Wych Hazel. 'I will take care of you!' And he said it with something of the warm smile which had met her before, power and promise together.
'Why, I'm not afraid,' she said, half laughing, yet half shyly too; thinking with herself how strange the day had been. Since until yesterday Mr. Rollo had scarcely paid her ordinary attention; since until then Mr. Falkirk had always been the one to care for her so carefully. She felt oddly alone, standing there by them both, looking out with her great brown eyes steadily into the setting sunshine; and a wistful air of thought-taking replaced the smile. Rollo remarked that there was but one unoccupied bed in the miller's house, and that one, he knew, was laid upon butternuts.
Mr. Falkirk had been watching his ward. He drew near, and put her hand upon his arm, looking and speaking with grave tenderness.
'You shall do as you list, my dear; I cannot advise you, for I do not know which would be worse, the fatigue of going or the fatigue of staying. You must judge. Dr. Maryland will receive you as his own child, if you go;—and I will keep you as my own child if you stay,' he added after a second's hesitation.
'Yes, sir—I know—I think I shall stay. I don't think I can go, Mr. Rollo; and as for the butternuts,' she added, recovering her spirits the moment the decision was made, 'any one who likes to sleep on them may! I shall play mouse among the meal bags.'
'Then I will do what I can to get you out of your difficulties to-morrow. I hope the play will not include sleeplessness, which is my idea of a mouse.'
He offered his hand, clasped hers, lifted his hat, and was gone.
With the departure of the more stirring member of the company, Miss Wych had subsided; and in that state could feel that she was tired. She sat in the doorway of the mill. It was after sundown; still, bright, sweet, and fair, as after sundown in June can be. The sky all aglow still with cooler lights; in the depth of the hollow the morsel of a lake had a dark shining of its own, like a black diamond, or a green jasper, with the light off. Mrs. Saddler was gone up the hill with Phoebe, to get her share of hospitality. Mr. Falkirk had supped on the remains of the strawberries and milk, and would have nothing more. Guardian and ward were alone. The stillness of Summer air floated down from the tree-tops, and did not stir the lake.
'Wych, how do you like seeking your fortune? I am curious to be informed?'
'Thank you, sir. The finding to-day has gone so far beyond my expectations, that I am willing to rest the pursuit till to- morrow.'
'Fortune and you clasp hands rather roughly at first setting out! But what do you think of the train she has brought with her in these seven days?'
'What train, sir?'
'I asked you what you thought of it. Answer straight like a good child.'
'It's a wonderful train, if it has made a good child of me,' she answered, with a half laugh. 'Do you mean of people, or events, sir?'
'The events are left behind, child; the people follow.'
'Will they?' said Wych Hazel. 'Dr. Maryland and all? Mr.Kingsland might stay behind. Nobody will ever want him.'
'All the rest have your good leave!' said Mr. Falkirk, with an expression—Wych could not tell what sort of an expression, it was so complicated. 'Do you think it is an easy office I have to fill?' he went on.
'Maybe not, sir. I thought you seemed very ready to give it up. I have felt like stray baggage to-day.'
'How do you suppose I am to guard you from so many enemies?'
'Ready to send me round the country, with the first knight- errant that starts up?' said the girl, in an aggrieved voice. 'And ifIhad proposed such a thing!'
'My dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'you would have been perfectly safe at Dr. Maryland's. And much better off than in this old mill. I am not sure but I ought to have made you go.'
'What do you mean by "enemies," just now, Mr. Falkirk?'
'There's an old proverb,' said Mr. Falkirk with a quirl of his lips, 'that "a cat may look at a king." And no doubt it is a queen's liability. But how am I to guard you from the teeth and the claws?'
'My dear sir, very few cats are dangerous. I am not much afraid of being scratched.'
'Have you any idea how many of your grimalkins are coming toChickaree this Summer?'
'No, sir. The more the better; for then they will have full occupation for their claws without me.'
'Ah, my dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'don't you know that the cat gets within springing distance before the claws are shown?'
'Yes, sir; but you are presupposing a stationary mouse. Pray, how many fierce, soft-pawed, sharp-clawed monsters preside over your ideas at present?'
'Six or seven,' said Mr. Falkirk with the utmost gravity.'Fortune has come upon you suddenly, Wych.'
It was very pretty, the way she laughed and flushed.
'They are not all troubled with whiskers, sir—my kind medical friend, for instance.'
'You think so! Pray, in your judgment, what is he, then?'
'Not a cat, sir, and yet no lion. Mr. Rollo calls him a "specimen." '
'Of what?' (dryly enough.)
'I rebuked him for the expression, sir, but did not inquire its meaning.'
'Do you suppose that the English traveller, Mr. Shenstone, will come to Chickaree this Summer for the purpose of inspecting the Morton manufactories?'
'Let us 'ope not, sir. Mr. Morton will, for his home is just there. He told me so.'
'And young Nightingale has it in his mind to spend a good deal of the Summer at his aunt's, Mrs. Lasalle's; for he told me so. I saw him in town.'
'Mr. Falkirk, you are not a bit like yourself to-day. Are all men cats, sir?' (very gravely.)
'My dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'most men are, when they see aChickaree mouse in their path!'
'Poor little me!' said Wych Hazel, laughing. She was silent a minute, then went cheerfully on. 'I know, Mr. Falkirk, I shall depend upon you! We're in a fairy tale, you remember, sir, and you must be the three dogs.'
'Will you trust me, Wych, when I take such a shape to your eyes?'
'Do you remember?' said she, not heeding. 'The first one with eyes like saucers, looking—so! And the next with eyes like mill wheels—so! And the next, with eyes like the full moon!—' At which point Miss Hazel's own eyes were worth looking at.
'You do not answer me, I observe. Never mind. A woman's understanding, I have frequently observed, develops like a prophecy.'
The night in the mill was better, on the whole, than it promised. No sound awoke Wych Hazel, till little messengers of light came stealing through every crack and knot hole of the mill, and a many-toed Dorking near by had six times proclaimed himself the first cock in creation, let the other be who he would!
To open her eyes was to be awake, with Wych Hazel; and softly she stepped along the floor and out on the dewy path to the lake side; and there stood splashing her hands in the water and the water over her face, with intense satisfaction. The lake was perfectly still, disturbed only by the dip of a king- fisher or the spring of a trout. She stood there musing over the last day and the last week, starting various profound questions, but not stopping to run them down,—then went meandering back to the mill again. On her way she came to a spot in the grass where there was a sprinkling of robin's feathers. Wych Hazel stopped short looking at them, smiling to herself, then suddenly stopped and chose out three or four; and went back with quick steps to the mill.
Bread and tea were had in the open air, with the seasoning of the June morning. The stage coach rumbled off by the road it had come, bearing with it the two countrywomen, and leaving a pile of baggage for Chickaree. The miller came down and set his mill agoing, excusing himself to his guests by saying that there was a good lot of corn to be ground and the people would be along for it. So the mill became no longer a place of rest, and Miss Hazel and her guardian were driven out into the woods by the rumble and dust and jar of machinery. Do what they would, it was a long morning to twelve o'clock; when the mill ceased its rumble and the miller went home to his dinner, and the weary and warm loiterers came back to the shade of the mill floor. Then the sound of wheels was heard at last; the first that had broken the solitude that day; and presently at the mill door Rollo presented himself, looking as if sunshine agreed with him. He shook hands with Mr. Falkirk, but gave Wych Hazel his old stately salutation.
'I could not come sooner,' he said. 'I did my best; but it is thirty miles instead of twenty-five. How was the night?'
'Sadly oblivious and uneventful!'
'Mine wasn't! for I was getting dinner for you in my dreams all night long. Being dependent on other people's resources, you see—However, I had a good little friend to help me!'
'What carriage have you brought for us, Rollo?'
'Dr. Maryland's rockaway, sir; and the miller's wagon for the trunks. To get anything else would have made much more delay. Is my friend Phoebe here?'
'She will be soon. It is dinner-time in the mill. What do you want, Mr. Rollo?'
'Three words and a little assistance.'
He went off, and in a little while was back again, accompanied by Phoebe and plates and glasses; and the two went on to set forth the dinner, which he drew from a great basket that had come in the rockaway. All this was done, and order given at the same time to other matters, with the light-handed promptitude and readiness of the bird-roasting of yesterday; Rollo assuring Wych Hazel between whiles that travelling was a very good thing, if you took enough of it.
'Thirty miles this morning, and thirty last night; and how many yesterday morning?—A hundred, I should say, by my measurement.'
'Rollo!—What a dinner you have brought us!' said Mr. Falkirk, who maintained a quiet and passive behaviour.
'You cannot set off for some hours yet, sir—the horses must have rest. I believe—but am not sure—that somebody got up very early this morning to make that pie. I told them I had left some friends in distress; and Primrose and I—did what we could. I realized this morning what must be the position of a Commissary General on a rapid march.'
The provision on the board called for no excuses. Rollo served everybody, even Mrs. Saddler, and afterwards dispensed strawberries of much larger growth than those of the day before. He was the impersonation of gay activity as long as there was anything to do; and then he subsided into ease- taking. The smoke of a cigar did not indeed offend Miss Kennedy's mill-door; but in a luxurious position under a tree at some distance the sometime smoker settled himself with his sketch-book, and seemed to be comfortably busy at play, till it was time for moving.
Wych Hazel had been in an altogether quiet mood since the arrival of the rockaway. In that mood she had watched the unpacking of the basket, in that mood she had eaten her dinner. It was strange, even to herself, the sort of quietus Mr. Rollo was to her. Not feeling free to play with him, by no means disposed to play before him, she had ventured to offer her services no further than by asking him what he wanted; then left him to himself; oddly conscious all the while, that if it had been any other one of her new feline friends, she would have put her little hand into the business and the basket with pleasant effect. So she sat still and watched him,—giving a bit of a smile now and then indeed to his direct remarks, but as often only a fuller look of the brown eyes. Since the gentleman had been under the tree she had been idly busy with her own thoughts, having sketched herself tired in the morning. "Prim" she recognized at once—Dr. Maryland's sister,—she had heard him speak of her. Would she be a friend? any one to whom these many thoughts might come out? So Wych Hazel sat, gazing out upon the lengthening shadows, leaning her head somewhat wearily in her hand, wishing the journey over and herself on her own vantage ground at Chickaree. It would be such a help to be mistress of the house!—for these last two days she had been nothing but a brown parcel, marked "fragile"—"with care."
Rollo had driven the rockaway down and was going to drive back. He put Wych Hazel into the carriage, recommending to her to lean back in the corner and go to sleep. Phoebe was given the place beside her; Mr. Falkirk mounted to the front seat; and off they drove.
It was about four o'clock of a fine June day, and the air was good to breathe; but the way was nothing extraordinary. A pleasant country, nothing more; easy roads for an hour, then heavier travelling.
The afternoon wore on; the miles were plodded over; as the sun was dipping towards the western horizon they came into scenery of a new quality. At once more wild and more dressed; the ground bolder and more rocky in parts, but between filled with gentler indications. The rockaway drew up. The driver looked back into the carriage, while the other gentleman got down.
'Miss Kennedy, if you will change places with Mr. Falkirk now you will be rewarded. I have something here a great deal better than that book.'
'I have not been reading—I have been watching for landmarks for some time,' she said, as she made the change; 'but I think I can never have gone to Chickaree by this road.'
The change was great. However fair it had looked from withinside, as soon as she got out on the front seat Wych Hazel found that a flood of bright, slant sunbeams were searching out all the beauty there was in the land, and winning it into view. It was one of those illuminated hours, that are to the common day as an old painted and jewelled missal to an ordinary black letter.
'Is it better than your book?' said the charioteer, whose reins were clearly only play to him, and who was much more occupied with his companion. She glanced round at him, with the very June evening in her eyes, dews and sunbeams and all.
'Better than most of the books that ever were written, I suppose. But the book was not bad, Mr. Rollo.'
'What book was it? to be mentioned in the connection.'
' "I Promessi Sposi." '
'Unknown to me. Give me an idea of it—while we are getting up this hill—there'll be something else to talk of afterwards.'
'Two people are betrothed, and proceed to get into all manner of difficulties. That is the principal idea so far. I haven't come to the turn of the story, which takes the thread out of its tangle.'
'A very stupid idea! Yet you said the book was not a bad book?' he said, looking gravely round upon her.
'No, indeed. And the idea is not stupid, in the book I mean, because the people could not help themselves, and so you get interested for them.'
'Do you get interested in people who cannot help themselves?'
'Yes, I think so—always,—people whocannotin the impossible sense. Not those who don't know or wont try. But my words did not mean just that. I should have said, helpit—help being in difficulties.'
'I believe people can get out of difficulties,' said Rollo.'What was the matter with these?'
'O the difficulties were piled on their heads by other people. Lucia was a peasant, but she was "si bella" that one of the grandees wanted to get her away from Renzo.'
'I don't see the difficulties yet. What next?'
'No, of course you don't!' said Wych, warming in defense of her book. 'But if some Don Rodrigo forbade somebody to marryyou—and then sent a party to run away with your bride—so that she had to go into a convent and you wander round the world in ill humour—I daresay your clearness of vision would improve.'
'I dare say it would,' said Rollo, passing a hand over his eyes,—'I think it would have to grow worse before all those events could happen! But on the highest round of that ladder of impossibilities, I think I should see my way into the convent,—and escape the ill humour.'
'But Lucia would not be shut up from you, but from the grandee. It would only make matters worse to bring her out.'
'Not for me,' said Rollo. 'It might for the book, because, as you say, then the interest would be gone. Do you think the people in a book are real people?—while you are reading it?'
'Not quite—they might have been real. I don't feel just as ifI should if I knew they were.'
'In that case the interest would be less?' he said, with a laughing look.
'Yes—or at least different. There are so many things to qualify your interest in real living people.'
'Yes. For instance in real life the people who cannot help being in difficulties never interest me as much as the people who get out of them; and so I think most novels are stupid, because the men and women are all real to me. There!' he said, pulling up as they reached the top of an ascent, 'there are no difficulties in your way here. What do you think of that?'
The hill-top gave a wide view over a rich, cultivated, inhabited country; its beauty was in the wide, generous eye- view and the painter's colours that decked it; for which, broken ground in front and distant low hills gave play to the slant sunbeams. Warm, rich, inviting, looked every inch of those wide-spread square miles.
'Do you know where you are?' said he in an enjoying tone.
'I suppose near home,—but it's not familiar yet.'
'No, you are some miles from home. Over there to the west, lies Dr. Maryland's—but you can't see it in this light. It's two miles away. Do you see, further to the north, standing high on a hill, a white house-front that catches the sun?'
'Yes.'
'Mme. Lasalle's, Moscheloo. It's a pretty place—nothing likeChickaree. When we reach the next turning you will catch aglimpse of Crocus in the other direction—do you know whatCrocus is?'
'O yes, the village. Our house was brown, I remember that,—and as you go up the hill Mr. Falkirk's cottage is just by the roadside. Did you tell them to leave Mrs. Saddler there?'
'She will tell them herself, I fancy. Crocus is the place where you will be expected to buy sugar and spice. It is some four miles from Chickaree on that side, and we are about five miles from it on this;' and as he spoke he set the horses in motion. 'I sent on a rescript to Mrs. Bywank, bidding her on her peril to be in order to receive you this evening. Mrs. Bywank and I are old acquaintances,' he said, looking at Wych Hazel.
'Dear Mrs. Bywank! how good she used to be. I haven't seen her but once since I left home. I'm sure you have a great many worse acquaintances, Mr. Rollo.'
'I am at a loss to understand how you can be sure of that. But I have some better.—Miss Kennedy, I want you to give me a boon. Say you will do it.'
'I'll hear it first.'
'Will you? that's fair, I suppose; but if we were better friends, I should not be satisfied without a blank check put into my hands for me to fill up. However,—as I am not to have that honour on the present occasion I will explain. Let me be the one to introduce you, some day, to one of your neighbours, whom you do not remember, because she came here since you went away. Will you?'
'Why yes, of course, if you wish it—only I will not be responsible for any accidental introduction that may take place first.'
'I will,' said Rollo. 'Then it is a bargain? I shall ask half a day's excursion for it.'
'That is as much of a supplement as a woman's postscript, Mr. Rollo. However, I suppose it is safe to let you ask what you like.'
'You give it to me?'
'Maybe.'
'Then it is a bargain,' said he, smiling. 'Here is my hand upon it.'
She laughed, looked round at him rather wonderingly, but gave her hand, remarking:
'But you know I have the right to change my mind three times.'
There is a curious language in the touch of hands, saying often inexplicably what the coarser medium of words would be powerless to say; revealing things not meant to be discovered; and also conveying sweeter, finer, more intimate touches of feeling and mood than tongue could tell if it tried. Wych Hazel remembered this clasp of her hand, and felt it as often as she remembered it. There was nothing sentimental; it was only a frank clasp, in which her hand for a moment was not her own; and though the clasp did not linger, for that second's continuance it gave her an indescribable impression, she could hardly have told of what. It was not merely the gentleness; she could not separate from that the notion of possession, and of both as being in the mind, to which the hand was an index. But such a thought passes as it comes. Something else in those five minutes brought the colour flitting about her face, coming and going as if ashamed of itself; but with it all she was intensely amused;shewas not sentimental, nor even serious, and the girlish light heart danced apas seulto such a medley of tunes that it was a wonder how she could keep step with them all.
'What do you expect to see at Chickaree?'
'Birds, trees, and horses, and—Mr. Falkirk, didn't you say there would be cats?'
'Let him alone—he is deep in your book,' said Rollo, as Mr. Falkirk made some astonished response. "I meant, what do you remember of the place? we are almost at the gate.'
'I'll tell you—nothing yet. Ah!'—
Through some lapse in the dense woodland there gleamed upon them as they swept on, the top of an old tower where the sunbeams lay at rest; and from the top, its white staff glittering with light, floated the heavy folds of a deep blue flag, not at rest there, but curling and waving and shaking out their white device, which was however too far off to be distinguished. She had said she would tell him, but she never spoke; after that one little cry, so full of tears and laughter, he heard nothing but one or two sobs, low and choked down. Now the lodge, nestling like an acorn under a great oak tree, came in sight first, then the massive piers of the gate. The gate was wide open, but while the little undergrowth of children started up and took possession of window and door and roadside, the gate was held by the head of the house, a sturdy, middle aged American. Wych Hazel had leaned out, watching the children; but as the carriage turned through the gateway, and she saw this man, standing there uncovered, caught the working of his brown weatherbeaten face, she bowed her head indeed, in answer to his low salutation, but then dropped her face in her hands in a perfect passion of weeping. It came and went like a Summer storm, and again she was looking intently. Now past Mr. Falkirk's white domicile, where her glittering eyes flashed round upon him the "welcome home" which her lips spoke but unsteadily,—then on, on, up the hill, the thick trees hiding the sunset and brushing the carriage with leafy hands,—it seemed to Mr. Rollo that still as the very fingers of his companion were, he could almost feel the bound of her spirit. Then out on a little platform of the road—and there, he did not know why she leaned forward so eagerly, till he saw across the dell the shining of white marble.
He watched her, but drove on without making the least call upon her attention. The views opened and softened as they drew near the house; the trees here had been more thinned out, and were by consequence larger; the carriage passed from one great shadow to another, with the thrushes ringing out their clear music and the wild roses breathing upon the evening air. From out the forest came wafts of dark dewy coolness, overhead the clouds revelled in splendour. Up still the horses went, ever ascending, but slowly, for the ascent was steep. The delay, the length of the drive tired her,—she sat up again—she had been quietly leaning back; once or twice her hand went up with a quick movement to drive back the feeling that was passing limits; then gaining level ground once more, the horses sprang forward, and in the failing twilight they swept round before the house. Except the tower, it was but two stories high, the front stretching along, with wide low steps running from end to end. In unmatched glee Dingee stood on the carriage way showing his teeth,—on the steps, striving in vain to clear her eyes so that she might see, was Mrs. Bywank; her kindly figure, which each succeeding year had gently developed, robed in her state dress of black silk.
Taking advantage of her outside position,—regardless of steps as of wheels,—Wych Hazel vanished from the carriage, it was hard to say how. As difficult as it would have been to guess by what witchcraft a person or Mr. Bywank's proportions could be spirited through the doorway—out of sight—in a twinkling of time; yet it was done, and the steps were empty.
The hill at Chickaree was steepest on the side towards the west, and down that slope an opening had been cut through the trees—a sort of pathway for the sunbeams. The direct rays were gone, and only the warm sky glow brightened the hall door, when the young mistress of the place once more appeared. She stood still a moment and went back again; and then came Dingee.
'Miss Hazel say, sar, room's ready and supper won't be long.Whar Mass Rollo?'
'I suppose he'll be here directly.'
Mr. Falkirk did not go into the house immediately; he stood with folded arms waiting, or watching the fading red glow of the western sky. In about ten minutes the tramp of a horse's feet heralded the coming of Mr. Rollo, who appeared from the corner or the house, mounted on an old grey cob, who switched his tail and moved his ears as if he thought going out at that time of day a peculiar proceeding. Dingee staid the rider with the delivery of his young lady's message.
'I am afraid supper's more than ready somewhere else. I can't stay, my friend—my thanks to the lady.' And letting fall on the little dark figure who stood at his stirrup, a gold piece and a smile, Rollo passed him, bent a moment to speak to Mr. Falkirk, and brought the grey cob's ideas to a head by stepping him off at a good pace.
The room was large, opening by glass doors upon a wilderness of grass, trees and flowers. At every corner glass cupboards showed a stock of rare old china; a long sideboard was brilliant and splendid with old silver. Dark cabinet ware furnished but not encumbered the room; in the centre a table looked all of hospitality and welcome that a table can. There was a great store of old fashioned elegance and comfort in Wych Hazel's home; no doubt of it; of old-fashioned state too, and old-time respectability; to which numberless old-time witnesses stood testifying on every hand, from the teapot, the fashion of which was a hundred years ancient, to the uncouth brass andirons in the fireplace. Mr. Falkirk came in as one to whom it was all very wonted and well known. The candles were not lit; a soft, ruddy light from the west reddened the great mirror over the fireplace and gave back the silver sideboard in it. Not till the clear notes of a bugle, the Chickaree tea- bell, had wound about the old house awakening sweet echoes, did Wych Hazel make her appearance.
'Supper mos' as good hot as de weather,' remarked Dingee. 'Mas Rollo, he say he break his heart dat his profess'nal duties tears him 'way.'
'Dingee, go down stairs,' said Miss Hazel turning upon him,— 'and when you tell stories about Mr. Rollo tell them to himself, and not to me. Will you come to tea, sir?'
The birds were taken by surprise next morning. Long before Mr. Falkirk was up, before the house was fairly astir with servants, there was a new voice in their concert; one almost as busy and musical as their own. Reo Hartshorne—the sturdy gardener and lodge-keeper—thought so, listening with wonder to hear what a change it made. Wych Hazel had found him out planting flowers for her, and with his hand taken in both hers had finished the half-begun recognition of last night. Now she stood watching him as he plied his spade, refreshing his labour with a very streamlet of talk, flitting round him and plucking flowers like a humming-bird supplied with fingers. The servants passing to and fro about their work smiled to each other; Mrs. Bywank came by turns to the door to catch a look or a word; Reo himself lifted his brown hand and made believe it was to brush away the perspiration. Another observer who had come upon the scene, observed it very passively—a girl, a small girl, in the dress of the poor, and with the dull eyes of observance which often mark the children of the poor. They expressed nothing, but that they looked.
'Good morning, child,' said Miss Hazel. 'Do you want me to give you a bunch of flowers?'
'No.'
'What then?'
'Mammy sent me to see if the lady was come.'
'Who is mammy? and what doesshewant?' said Wych Hazel, cutting more rosebuds and dropping them into her apron.
'Mammy wants to see the lady.'
'Well, is she coming to see me?'
'She can't come.'
'Why not?'—a quick shower of laughter and dew-drops, called down by a fruitless spring after a spray of white roses.
'She lays abed,' said the child, after the shower was over.
'O, is she sick?' with a sudden gravity. 'Then I will come and see her. Where does she live?'
The child went away as soon as sure arrangements were made for the fulfilment of the promise. Wych Hazel's first visitor! one of the two classes sure to find her out with no delay. And Miss Kennedy was about as well versed in the one as in the other.
The summons came to her to attend the breakfast room. Mr. Falkirk was there, fixed in an easy chair and pamphlet; the morning stir had not reached him.
'How long do we remain at Chickaree?' he asked, as he buttered his muffin.
'Why, dear Mr. Falkirk, you might as well ask me how long gentlemen will wear their present becoming style of head- dress! I don't know.'
'I gather that it would not be safe to order post-horses for departure. The question remains: would it be safe to order other horses for the stable at home? One or the other thing it is absolutely necessary to do.'
'The other horses, sir, by all means. And especially my pony carriage.'
'I shall have to have one built to order,' remarked Mr.Falkirk, after the pause of half an egg.
'And have it lined with blue—to set me off.'
'With a dickey behind—to set me on.'
'No, indeed! I'll have Dingee for an outrider, and then we'll be a complete set of Brownies. You must order quick-footed horses for me, Mr. Falkirk—I may be reduced to the fate of the Calmuck girls.'
A single dark flash was in Mr. Falkirk's glance; but he only said: 'Who is to have the first race, my dear?'
'Mr. Falkirk, you should rather be anxious as to who will have the last. But get me a fast horse, sir, and let me practise'— and flitting away from the table and about the room Miss Hazel sang—
' "The lady stude on the castle wa',"Beheld baith date and down;"Then she was ware of a host of men"Came ryding towards the town."O see ye not, my merry men a',"O see ye not what I see?"Methinks I see a host of men:"I marvel wha' they be." '
And thereupon, finding she had suddenly come rather close to the subject, Miss Hazel dashed out of the room.
The day proved warm. The air, losing its morning dew and freshness, moved listlessly about among the leaves; the sky looked glassy; the cattle stood panting in the shade, or mused, ankle deep, in the brooks; only the birds were stirring.
With thought and action as elastic as theirs, the young mistress of Chickaree prepared for her visit to the poor woman; afraid neither of the hot sunbeams nor of certain white undulations of cloud that just broke the line of the western horizon. Mr. Falkirk had walked down to his cottage; there was no one to counsel or hinder. And over the horses there was small consultation needed; the only two nags found being a young vixen of a black colt, and an intensely sedate horse of no particular colour which Mrs. Bywank was accustomed to drive to church. Relinquishing this respectable creature to Dingee, Wych Hazel perched herself upon Vixen and set forth; walking the colt now to keep by her little guide, but promising herself a good trot on the way home.
The child had come to show her the way, and went in a shuffling amble by the side of the colt's black legs. For a good while they kept the road which had been travelled yesterday; at last turned off to another which presently became pleasantly shady. Woods closed it in, made it rather lonely in fact, but nobody thought now of anything but the grateful change. There were clouds which might hide the sun by and by, but just now he was powerful and they were only lifting their white heads stealthily in the west. At a rough stile, beyond which a foot track led deeper into the wood, the girl stopped.
'It's in here,' she said.
It was very clear that Vixen could not cross the stile. So her young rider dismounted and looping up the heavy folds of her riding skirt as best she might, disappeared from the eyes of Dingee among the trees. Her dress was a pretty enough dress after all, for though the skirts were dark and heavy, the white dimity jacket was all airiness and ruffles; and once fairly in the shade of the trees, Wych Hazel let her riding hat fall back and rest on her shoulders in very childish fashion indeed. Her little guide trotted on before her; till they saw the house they had come for.
It was a place of shiftless poverty; of need, no doubt, but not of industry; Wych Hazel was humbly begged to supply deficiencies which ought not to have been. Inexperienced as she was, she scarcely understood it. Nevertheless she was glad when the visit was over and she could step out of the door again. The clouds had not hid the sun yet, and she went lightly on through the trees, singing to herself according to custom, till she was near the stile; then she was 'ware' of somebody approaching and the singing ceased. The glance which showed her a stranger revealed also what made her glance again as they drew nearer; it was a person of uncommonly good exterior and fine bearing. A third glance would not have been given, but that, as they came close, Wych Hazel received the homage of a very profound and courteous salutation, and the gentleman, presenting a branch of white roses, said with sufficient deference,
'Earth, must offer tribute!—and cannot, without hands—'
And then passed swiftly on. Amused, startled, Wych Hazel also quickened her step; wondering to herself what sort of country she had fallen upon. It was ridiculously like a fairy tale, this whole afternoon's work. The little barefooted guide, the sick woman with her 'young goodness' and 'your ladyship,' now this upstarting knight. There were the roses in her hand, too, as much like the famed spray gathered by the merchant in 'Beauty and the Beast,' as mortal roses could be! But the adventure was not over. As she reached the stile she heard the same voice beside her again. The stranger held her riding whip, which Wych Hazel had left behind her at the cottage; the little girl had met him, bringing it, he said. And then he went on—'It is impossible not to know that I am speaking to Miss Kennedy. I am a stranger in the country, but my aunt, Mme. Lasalle, is well known to Mr. Falkirk. Will Miss Kennedy allow me to assist her in remounting?'
It was gracefully said, with quietly modulated tones that belong only to a high grade of society, and the speaker had a handsome face and good presence. Nevertheless, Wych Hazel had no mind to be 'remounted' by any one, and was very near saying as much; for in her, 'temperament' retarded the progress of conventionalism sadly. As it was, she gave him a hesitating assent, and received his proffered assistance. Then lifting his hat, he stood while she passed on.
It was time to ride, for the sky was dark with clouds, the air breathless, and sharp growls of thunder spoke in the distance, at every one of which Vixen made an uneasy motion of ears and head, to show what she would do when they came nearer.
'We must ride for it, Dingee,'—Miss Hazel said to her dark attendant.
'Reckon we'll get it, too, Miss Hazel,' was Dingee's reply, and a heavy drop or two said 'yes, it is coming.' Wych Hazel laughed at him, cantering along on her black pony like a brown sprite, the rising wind making free with her hair and hat ribbands, the rose spray made fast for her buttonhole. But as she dashed out of the woods upon a tract of open country, the distance before her was one sheet of grey rain and mist, and a near peal of thunder that almost took Vixen off her feet, showed what it would be to face such a storm, so mounted. And now the raindrops began to patter near at hand.
But where to go? She had passed no place of refuge in the woodland, and before her the storm hid every thing from sight. So, after a second's thought, Wych Hazel turned and flew down a side road a half a mile to the very door of a low stone house, the first she had seen, sprang off her frightened pony, and darted into the open hall door, leaving Dingee to find shelter for himself and his charge. Then she began to wonder where she was, and what the people would say to her; at first she had been only glad to get off Vixen's back, the pony had jumped and reared at such a rate for the last five minutes.
In the hall, which at a glance she saw was square and wide, and felt was flagged with stone, stood a large packing case; and about it and so busy with it that for a second they did not observe her, were a girl and young man, the latter knocking off boards and drawing out nails with his hammer, while the other hovered over the work and watched it absorbedly. In a moment more they both looked up. The hammer went down and with a face of illumination Rollo came forward.
'Why here she is!' he exclaimed gayly, 'dropped into our hands! and as wet as if she had fallen from the clouds literally. Here Rosy, carry off this lady to your domains. This is Primrose Maryland, Miss Kennedy.'
A primrose she evidently was, sweet and good and fresh like one, with something of a flower's gravity, too. That could be seen at a glance; also that she was rather a little person, though full and plump in figure, and hardly pretty, at least in contrast with her brilliant neighbour. Wych Hazel's first words were of unbounded surprise.
'From what possible part of the clouds did you fall, Mr. Rollo!'—then with a blush and a look of apology to Miss Maryland, 'I ought to excuse myself; I didn't know where I was coming. And my horse quite refused to stand upon more than two feet at once, I found the storm uncomfortable—and so jumped off and ran in. It's the fault of your door for being open, Miss Maryland!'
'I am very glad,' said Primrose simply. 'The door stood open because it was so hot. We were going to see you this afternoon but the storm hindered us. Now, will you come up-stairs and get on something dry?'
They went up a low staircase and along a gallery to Primrose's room. Large and low, as nice as wax, and as plain. How unlike any room at Chickaree, Wych Hazel could not help feeling, while its little mistress was opening cupboards and drawers, and getting out the neatest and whitest of cambric jackets and ruffles and petticoats, and bringing forth all accommodations of combs and brushes. Meanwhile Wych Hazel could not help seeing some of the tokens about the place that told what kind of life was lived there. Its spotlessly neat and orderly condition was one token; but there were signs of business. Work-baskets, with what seemed fulness of work, were about the room; books, not in great numbers, but lying in little business piles, with business covers and the marks of use. Papers were on one table by the window, with pen and ink and pencil and cards. And everywhere a simplicity that showed no atom of needless expenditure. Very unlike Chickaree?
Primrose the while was neat-handedly helping to array her guest in fresh apparel. She had pretty little hands, and they were quick and skilful; and as she stooped to try on a slipper or manage a fastening, Wych Hazel had a view of a beautiful head of fair brown hair, in quiet arrangement that did not show all its beauty; and when from time to time the eyes were lifted, she saw that they were very good eyes; as reposeful as a mountain tarn, and as deep too, where lay thought shadows as well as sunshine. They were shining eyes now, with secret admiration and pleasure and good will and eager interest.
'Are you come to stay a good while at Chickaree? I hope you will.'
'Maybe—perhaps. O my boots are not wet, Miss Maryland,—and I don't think I caught enough raindrops to hurt. How kind you are!—And how well your brother describes you.'
'Arthur?—I wish he would not describe me. Chickaree is such a beautiful place, I should think one might like to stay there. I have been hoping about it, ever since I heard you were coming. Father knows Mr. Falkirk, and used to know your father and mother, so well, that I have almost felt as if I knew you,—till I saw you.'
'And you don't feel so now?' with a shade of disappointment.
'No,' said Primrose laughing. 'But I am sure I shall very soon, if you will let me. I have wished for it so much! There, won't that do? It is lucky I had some of Prue's things here— mine are too short. Prue is my sister. It looks very nice, I think.'
'O yes,' her guest answered, taking up her bunch of roses, fresh with the rain. 'Thank you very much! But why do you say that about your brother?'
'Arthur?—O—descriptions never tell the truth.'
'I am sure he did,' said Wych Hazel. 'And I know I would give anything to have anybody to talk so about me.'
Primrose returned a somewhat earnest and wondering look at her new friend; then took her hand to lead her down stairs.
In the hall they found Mr. Rollo; not by his packing case exactly, for he had taken that to pieces, and the contents stood fair to view; a very handsome new sewing machine. Surrounded with bits of board and litter, he stood examining the works and removing dust and bits of paper and string. Over the litter sprang to his side Primrose and laid her hand silently in his, and with downcast eyes stood still looking at the machine. The bright eyes under their lids spoke as much joy as Rosy's face often showed; yet she was perfectly still.
'Well?' said Rollo, squeezing the little hand and looking laughingly down at her.
'You are so good!'
'You don't think it,' said he. 'You know better; and as you always speak perfect truth, I am surprised to hear you.'
'You are good to me,' said Primrose in a low tone.
'I should be a pleasant fellow if I wasn't,' said he stooping to kiss her, at which the flush of pleasure on Rosy's cheek deepened; 'but in the meantime it is proper we should look after the comfort of our prisoner.' Then stepping across the litter to where Wych Hazel stood, he went on—'You know, of course, that you stand in that relation to us, Miss Kennedy? Primrose is turnkey, and I am governor. Would you like to see the inside of the jail?'
The 'prisoner' had stood still in grave wonderment at people and things generally; especially at the footing Mr. Rollo seemed to have in this house.
'Governor to a steam engine is an easier post,' she said, throwing off her thoughts.
'I have been that'—he said, as he led her into a room on the right of the hall.
This room took in the whole depth of the house, having windows on three sides; low, deep windows, looking green, for the blinds were drawn together. The ceiling was low, too; and from floor to ceiling, everywhere except where a door or window broke the space, the walls were lined with books. There was here no more than up stairs evidence of needless money outlay; the furniture was chintz covered, the table-covers were plain. But easy chairs were plenty; the tables bore writing-materials and drawing-materials and sewing-materials; and books lay about, open from late handling; and a portfolio of engravings stood in a corner. Rollo put his charge in an easy chair, and then went from window to window throwing open the blinds. The windows opened upon green things, trees and flowers and vines; the air came in fresher; the rain was softly falling fast and thick, and yet the pale light cheered up the whole place wonderfully.
'Your windows are all shut, Rosy!' said Rollo as he went from one to the other—'is that the way you live? You must keep them open now I am come home!'
'It was so hot,'—said the voice of Rosy from the hall.
'Hot? that is the very reason. What are you about? Rosy!—'
He went to the door, and then from where she sat Wych Hazel could see the prompt handling which Rosy's endeavours to put away the disorder received. She was taken off from picking up nails, and dismissed into the library; while Rollo himself set diligently about gathering together his boards and rubbish. Primrose came in smiling.
'It is better with the windows open,' she said; 'but I was so busy this morning I believe I forgot. And father never comes into this room till evening. How it rains! I am so glad!'
And taking a piece of work from a basket, she placed herself near Wych Hazel and began to sew. It was a pretty home picture, such as Wych Hazel—in her school life and ward life— had seen few. Just why it made her feel quiet she could not have told. Yet the brown eyes went somewhat gravely from Primrose at her work to the hall where Rollo felt so much at home—then round the room and towards the window, watching the rain.
'Won't you give me some work?' she asked suddenly.
'O talk!' said Primrose, looking up. 'Don't work.'
'It takes more than work to stop my mouth,' said Wych Hazel, 'Ah, I can work, though you don't believe it, Miss Rosy; do please give me that ruffle—or a handkerchief,—don't you want some marked? I can embroider like any German.'
Primrose doubted her powers of sewing and talking both at once; but finally supplied her with an immense white cravat to hem, destined for the comfort of Dr. Maryland's throat; and working and chatting did go on very steadily for some time thereafter, both girls being intent on each other at least, if not on the hemming, till Rollo came back. He interrupted the course of things.
'Now,' said Rollo, 'I am going to ask you first, Primrose—are you setting about to make Miss Kennedy as busy as yourself?'
'I wish I could, you know,' said Primrose, half smiling, half wistfully.
'And I want to know from you, Miss Kennedy, where Mr. Falkirk is this afternoon?'
'In the depths of a nap, I suppose. Is the rain slackening,Mr. Rollo?'
'What do you think?'—as with a fresher puff of wind the rush of the raindrops to the earth seemed to be more hurried and furious. Wych Hazel listened, but did not speak her thoughts. Rollo considered her a little, and then drew up the portfolio stand and began to undo the fastenings of the portfolio.
'Do you like this sort of thing?'
'Very much. O I don't care a great deal about them as engravings, I suppose; but I like to study the faces and puzzle over the lives.'
'This collection is nothing remarkable as a collection—but it may serve your purpose, perhaps.' He set up a large, rather coarse print of Fortitude, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The figure stands erect, armed with a helmet and plume, one hand on her hip, the other touching just the tip of one finger to a broken column by her side. At her feet a couchant lion.
'Looking at that, not as an engraving, which wouldn't be profitable, what do you see?'
'I was trying to think whether she was Mr. Falkirk's ideal,' said Wych Hazel, after a somewhat prolonged study of the engraving. 'She is not mine.'
'Why not?'
'Yes, she isn't mine,' said Primrose. 'Why not, Miss Kennedy?'
'Mr. Falkirk always says, "My dear, be a woman and be brave!"—But I think she fails on both points.'
'I don't understand,' said Primrose, while Rollo's smile grew amused. 'I don't quite understand you, Miss Kennedy. She looks brave to me.'
'No, she don't,' said Wych Hazel decidedly; 'anybody can stick on a helmet. What is that half asleep lion for, Mr. Rollo?'
'He isn't half asleep!' said Primrose. 'He looks very grimly enduring. But I agree with Miss Kennedy, that Fortitude should not wear a helmet, with a plume in it, too! She is quite as apt to be found under a sun-bonnet, I think.'
'Bravo, Prim!' said Rollo.
'And she ought to have her hands crossed.'
'Crossed?' said Wych Hazel.
'Yes, I think so.'
'This fashion?' said the girl folding her tiny hands across her breast. 'They would not stay there two seconds, ifIwas enduring anything.'
Rosy crossed her own hands after another fashion, and was silent.
'How do you generally hold your hands when you are enduring anything?' Rollo asked the other speaker demurely.
'Ah, now you are laughing at me!' she said. 'But I don't think I quite understand passive, inactive fortitude. I like Niobe's arms, all wrapped about her child,—do you remember?'
'I remember. But you don't callthatfortitude, do you?'
'Yes,' said Wych Hazel. 'She was dying by inches,—and yet her arms look, so strong! I am sure she didn't know whether they were crossed or uncrossed.'
'Do you think that lion there in the corner looks like Mr.Falkirk?'
'No, indeed! Mr. Falkirk would take a good deal more notice of me, ifIwas balancing myself on one finger,' said Wych Hazel.
'Whatisthat one finger for?' said Primrose.
'Do you ask that, Rosy? To show that she has nothing earthly to lean upon. She just touches the pillar, as much as to say it is broken and of no use to her. Perhaps her confidence is in that slumbering lion,—Is that another representation of fortitude?'
He had hid Sir Joshua's picture with an engraving ofDelaroche's Marie Antoinette leaving the Tribunal.
'She knew what it meant, I should think, if anybody did. But most fortitude—real fortitude—be always unhappy?' said Hazel looking perplexedly at the picture.
Rollo turned back to the Reynolds. 'You were both wrong about this,' said he; 'at least I think so. Real fortitudedoesfiguratively, go helmeted and plumed. She endures so perfectly that she does not seem to endure. In this representation the lion shows you the mental condition which lies hid behind that fair, stern front. Now is Marie Antoinette like that?' He turned the pictures again.
'I cannot tell!' said Wych Hazel. 'One minute her fortitude looks just like pride,—and then when you remember all she had to bear, it's not strange if she called up pride to help her. But it is not my ideal yet.'
'I think itispride,' said Rollo. 'So it looks to me. Pride and grief facing down death and humiliation. Marie Theresa's daughter and Louis Capet's queen acknowledging no degradation before her enemies—giving them no triumph that she could help. But that is not my ideal either.'
He brought out another print.
'I always like that,' said Primrose.
'I do not know it,' said Wych Hazel.
'Don't you? it is very common. It is the eve of St. Bartholomew. This Catholic girl wants to tie a white favour round he lover's arm, to save him from the massacre soon to begin. She has had the misfortune to love a Huguenot. White favours, you remember, were the mark by which the Catholics were to know each other in the confusion.'
'And he will not let her. Was it a misfortune, I wonder?'
'What?' said Primrose.
'To love somebody so much nobler than herself. How gentle he is in his earnestness!'
'Don't be hard upon her,' said Rollo. 'Are you sure you wouldn't do so in her place?'
'No,—' she said, looking gravely up at him.
'She knew it was death to go without that white handkerchief.'
'But,' said Primrose softly, 'wouldn't you rather have him die true, than live dishonoured?'
'I think I should have tried,' said Wych Hazel,—'knowing I should fail. And then I should have thrown away my own favour, and gone with him wherever he went.'
'He wouldn't have let you do that either,' said Rollo.
'Then he would not have loved me as I loved him,' said the girl, very decidedly.
'He'd have been a pretty fellow!' said Rollo, as he turned the next print. It was a contrast to the St. Bartholomew; a Madonna and child, from Fra Bartholomeo, at which they were all content to look silently. Rollo began to talk, then, instead of asking questions, and made himself very interesting. So much he knew of art matters, so many a story and legend he could tell about the masters, and so well he could help the less initiated to enjoy and understand the work. So letting himself out in a sort of play-fashion, the portfolio proved the nucleus of a delightful hour's entertainment. At the end of that time a turn was given to things by the coming in of an old black woman with a very high, coloured turban on her head and a teakettle and a chafing dish of coals in her hands. Rollo shut up his portfolio.
'What is your view, practically, of things at present, MissKennedy?'
'Mr. Falkirk says I never took a practical view of things in my life, Mr. Rollo. The impracticable view seems to be, that it is tea time and I ought to go home.'
'What do you think of the plan of letting Mr. Falkirk know where you are?'
'Yes, I ought to do that,' said his ward, 'Where is Dingee?—I will send him right off.'
'Will you write, or shall I?' said Rollo, drawing out paper and pen ready on one of the tables.
She glanced at him as if in momentary wonder that he should offer to write her despatch, then ran off the most summary little note, twisted it into a knot of complications, and again asked for Dingee. Rollo gently but saucily put his own fingers upon the twisted note and bore it away.
The business of the tea-making and preparing was going on; and both Primrose and her old assistant bustled about the tea table, getting things ready and Dr. Maryland's chair in its right place. A quiet bustle, very pleasant in the eyes of Wych Hazel, with all its homely and sweet meanings. The light had softened a little, and still came through a grey veil of rain; odours of rose and sweet-briar and evening primroses floated in on the warm, moist air, and mingled with the steam of the tea-kettle and the fume in the chafing-dish; and the patter, patter of rain drops, and the dash of wet leaves against each other, were a foil to the tea-kettle's song. Wych Hazel looked on, musingly, till Rollo came back and took her round the room looking at books. Then offering her his arm, he somewhat suddenly brought her face to face with some one just entering by the door.
An old gentleman; Wych Hazel knew at once who it must be. Middle-sized, stout, with rather thin locks of white hair, and a face not otherwise remarkable than for its look of habitual high thought and pure goodness. It took but a moment to see so much of him. She stopped short, and then came close up to him.
'Is this your charge, Dane? Is this little Wych Hazel?' he went on more tenderly, and folding her in his arms. 'My dear,' he said, kissing her brow, 'I hope you will be as good a woman as your mother was! I am very glad to see you!—very glad indeed!'
She did not answer at first, looking up into his face with a wistful, searching look that was a little eager; standing quite still, as if the enclosing arms were very pleasant to her.
'Yes sir,' she said, 'I am Wych Hazel. But why are you glad to see me?'
'My dear, I knew your mother and father; and I have a great interest in you. I am told you will be queen of a large court up yonder at Chickaree.'
She laughed a little, and coloured, looking down, then back into his face again.
'Will you like me, sir, all you can?'
'All you will give me a chance for. So you must let us see you a great deal; for affection must grow, you know; it cannot be commanded. Sit down, my dear, sit down; Primrose is ready for us.'
It was a right pleasant meal! There was no servant waiting; the little informalities of helping themselves suited well with the quiet home ease and the song of the tea-kettle. Primrose made toast for her father, and Rollo blew the coals to a red heat to hasten the operation. Dr. Maryland sometimes talked and sometimes was silent; and his talk was of an absolute simplicity that neither knew in his own nor imagined in other people's minds any reserves of dark corners. Primrose talked little, but was lovingly watchful not only of her father, but of Wych Hazel, and Rollo too; who on his part was watchful enough over everybody.
'And my dear,' said Dr. Maryland, 'why did you not bring Mr.Falkirk with you?'
'Well, sir, to begin—I did not know I was coming myself! I was out riding, and the rain came—and I jumped off into the first open door I could see. And then Miss Maryland let me stay.'
'But Mr. Falkirk, my dear—where's he?'
'Safe at home, sir. We have been seeking our fortune together, but to-night we got separated.'
'Mr. Falkirk went back and left you?' said Dr. Maryland, looking surprised.
'No, sir, I went ahead and left him. That is,' she added, smothering a laugh, 'he did not set out at all.'
'I thought—I thought, you said you were together?'
'Only in a general way, sir. On all special occasions we divide.'
'What did you say you were doing? seeking your fortune?'
'I set out to seek mine,' said Wych Hazel, 'and of course poor Mr. Falkirk has to go along to look on. He doesn't help me one bit.'
'To seek your fortune, my dear?' said Dr. Maryland, looking benignly curious; 'What sort of a fortune are you looking for?'
'Why I don't know, sir. If I knew,—it would be half found already, wouldn't it?' said the girl.
'But my dear—did Mr. Falkirk never tell you that fortunes are never found ready made?'
'He objected, because he said mine was ready made—but that made no difference from my point of view. And then he said he thought our road would "end in a squirrel track, and run up a tree." And do you know, sir,' said Wych Hazel, the hidden merriment flashing out all over her face, 'that was what it really did!'
'Did what, my dear?'
'I beg your pardon, sir,' she said, trying to steady her voice and bring out words instead of a burst of laughter,—'but—that is a wild Western expression, which Mr. Falkirk used to signify that we should get into difficulties.'
'Why did Mr. Falkirk think you would get into difficulties?'—Dr. Maryland had not found the scent yet.
'I don't think he has much opinion of my prudence, sir,—and believes firmly that every one who goes off the highway finds rough ground. Now I like a jolt now and then—it wakes one up.'
'Do you want to find rough ground, my dear?'
'I don't mean really rough, sir, in one sense, but uneven— varied, and stirring, and uncommonplace. It seems to me that I have a whole set of energies that never come into play upon ordinary occasions. I should weary to death of the lives some people lead—three meals a day, and a cigar, and a newspaper. I think I should fast once a week, for variety—and smoke my cigar wrong end first—if there are two ends to it.'
'I heard a lady say the other day, that there was no end to them,'—observed Rollo.
Dr. Maryland looked at her on his part, smiling, and quite awake now to the matter in hand. Yet he was silent a minute before speaking.
'Have you laid your plan, my dear? I should very much like to know what it is!'
'No, sir,' she said, shaking her head with a deprecatory little laugh. 'Of course I have not! People in fairy tales never do.'
'Life is not a fairy tale, Hazel,' said Dr. Maryland, shaking his head a little. 'My dear, you are a real woman. Did you ever think what you would try to do in the world?—what you would try to do with your life, I mean?'
'Do with it?' the girl repeated, her brown eyes on the Doctor's face as if looking for his meaning. 'I think, I should like to enjoy it, if I could. And it has been very commonplace, lately, sir. Mr. Falkirk don't pet me and play with me as he used to—and he won't let me play with him; not much.'
The smile which quivered on Dr. Maryland's face changed and passed into a sort of sweet gravity.
'There is one capital way to get out of commonplace,' he said; 'but it isn't play, my dear. If you set about doing what God would have you to do with yourself, there will be no dullness in your life, and no lack of enjoyment, either.'
She looked at him again—then down; but made no answer.
'Somebody has written an essay, that I read lately,' Dr. Maryland went on—'an essay on the monotony of piety. Poor man! he did not know what he was talking about. The glorious liberty of the children of God!—that was something beyond his experience;—and the joy of their service. It is what redeems everything else from monotony. It glorifies what is insignificant, and dignifies what is mean, and lifts what is low, and turns the poor little business steps of every day into rounds of Heaven's golden ladder. I verily think I could have hanged myself long ago, for the very monotony of all things else, if it had not been for the life and glory of religion!'