Wych Hazel | Page 6

man who had in some shape achieved
success.
By this time the stream of passengers 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 passengers 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.'
'My dear sir!--of Barbarism!'
'Civilization has never entirely got rid of barbarism, I believe,' said Mr.
Falkirk between his teeth; then out, 'By what road are you going,
Rollo?'
'I should be happy to act as guide, sir. I leave the direct route.'
'Mr. Falkirk,' said Wych Hazel, 'just put your head a little this way, and
see the veil of mist thrown over the top of that hill.'
Mr. Falkirk looked hastily, and resumed: 'You have lately returned, I
hear, from your long foreign stay?'
'It was time.'
'Mr. Falkirk,' said his ward, 'do you consider that a remnant of the dark
ages?'
'It keeps its place too gracefully for that,' said her guardian dropping his
voice, as he looked across Wych Hazel out of the coach window.
'Mr. Falkirk' (sotto voce), 'you are charming!--Between ourselves, this
is a hard place to keep gracefully. Please take out your watch, sir.'
Which Mr. Falkirk did, and silently showed it. Forth to meet his came a
little gold hunting watch from behind the brown veil.

'You are a minute slow, sir--as usual.' Then very softly,--'Mr. Falkirk,
what with being pressed and repressed, I am dying by quarter inches!
Just introduce me for your grandmother, will you, and I will matronize
the party.'
A request Mr. Falkirk complied with by entering forthwith into a long
business discussion with another occupant of the stage coach, also
known to him; in which stocks, commercial regulations, political
enterprises, and the relative bearings of the same, precluded all
reference to anything else whatever. Nobody's grandmother could have
had less (visible) attention than Miss Hazel, up to the time when the
coach rolled up to the door of a wayside inn, and the party got out to a
luncheon or early dinner, as some of them would have called it. Then
indeed she had enough. Mr. Falkirk handed her out and handed her in;
straight to the gay carpeted "Ladies' room;" shut the door carefully, and
asked her what she would have. No other lady was there to dispute
possession.
'Only a broiled chicken, sir--and a soufflé--and potatoes à la crême au
gratin,' said Miss Hazel, throwing off her bonnet and curling herself
down on the arm of the