Wych Hazel | Page 5

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 amusement, 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, passing 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 nobody 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 quantity 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 passengers 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 passed his hand
over his brow with the air of a