Joseph Tatlow - "Fifty Years of Railway Life in England, Scotland and Ireland"

Anonymous - "Laxdaela Saga"

Jenny Wren - "Lazy Thoughts of a Lazy Girl"

Charles E. Bolton - "The Harris Ingram Experiment"

Books of The Times: A 5th Gospel Can Be Like a 5th Wheel
An independent publisher said it was negotiating to release Herman Rosenblat’s discredited memoir, “Angel at the Fence,” as fiction.

Arts, Briefly: False Memoir May Find New Life as Fiction
The architectural historian Kenneth Frampton has updated his 1995 book with 11 additional houses.

Currents | Books: 11 More Great Homes
A personal Christmas tale posted online by the author Neale Donald Walsch turns out to belong to someone else — the writer Candy Chand, who first published it 10 years ago.

Susan and Anna Warner - Wych Hazel

S >> Susan and Anna Warner >> Wych Hazel




'How can she keep near you, you giddy creature?' said Mme.
Lasalle. 'Hazel' (whispering), 'Stuart bade me engage you to
lead the German with him. May I tell him you will?'

'O Hazel,' cried Josephine again, 'we are going to have such
fun. Kitty is going to let us into some new figures, and they
are considerably jolly, I tell you!'

'Are they?' said Hazel. 'But the music comes first, Mme.
Lasalle, and I may not stay for the German. And I have
promised the first walk to Mr. May.'

'Not stay for the German!'--'_Not_ stay for the German?' was
echoed in so many various tones of despair that it had to be
answered again.

'I only said I might not,' said Wych Hazel. 'Good evening, Mr.
May.'--And Miss Kennedy swept off, to the opening burst of
music from the band.

Now there are other sounds besides music at a promenade
concert, and many things not strictly harmonious are said and
done under cover of its trombones and violins. Wych Hazel
indeed walked unremittingly,--it suited her mood that night;
but many sat and talked, very regardless of the music, and not
too mindful of other ears. And so after a while a group
gathered round Kitty Fisher, to discuss the coming German and
pick up a few hints touching the promised new figures. Wych
Hazel had just passed, escorted on either hand: her dark-blue
robe and white laces setting her off to perfection. For a
minute eyes alone were busy.

'That girl provokes me to death with her high dresses!' said
Kitty Fisher. 'Such ridiculous nonsense!'

'I'm not so sure as to that,' said Miss May. 'Dick raves about
it.'

'Dick raves about her altogether,' said Kitty,--'so of course
he has to include her dress.'

'Well, George said that other shoulders might as well retire
if her's ever came fairly out,' said little Molly Seaton, who
was taking her first sips of society, and looked up to Miss
Kennedy as the eighth and ninth wonder of the world combined.

'I don't care,' said Kitty Fisher, 'I'll have 'em out! I vow I
will. It's a fraud on society.'

'Society can afford to be a loser now and then,' said Mr.
Kingsland, softly insinuating himself among the ladies;--'it
gets so much more than its due between whiles!'

'It's prudish,' said Phinny, disregarding this sentiment,--
'that's what it is. Do you suppose it's that old wretch of a
guardian keeps her in leading strings? Now she talks of not
staying to the German.'

'The Sorceress is in one of her moods to-night,' said Mr.
Kingsland. 'Murky. Flashes coming so thick and fast, that I
declare I've been winking all the evening.'

'Stephen,' said Miss Kitty, 'if you'll help get up the
"Handkerchief" by and by, and get her into the thick of it
before she knows where she's going, I'll give you the first
pair of blue gloves I can spare.'

'Great offer,' said Mr. Kingsland; 'but to-night the Sorceress
prefers walking.'

'Stuff!--who cares what she prefers?'

'Some nine-tenths--and a fraction--of all the men here,--myself
included,' said Mr. Kingsland.

'You are the fraction, or you'd manage it,' retorted Kitty.
'It's doubtful if she _would_ dance with _you_.'

'She will not dance with anybody this night,' said Mr.
Kingsland.

'How do you know?'

'Said so. And what Miss Kennedy has said, she does.'

'Why, she _couldn't_ dance in that long train,' said Molly
Seaton.

'Little goose!' said Kitty Fisher, 'she would hang _that_ over
her partner's arm.'

'Would she!' said Mr. Kingsland, with a slight whistle. 'I
asked her to do it once: I think I shall not again.'

'She'd rather talk to six men than dance with one, I suppose,'
said Miss Fisher, eyeing the girl who stood now leaning
against a tree in the distance.

'And the post of the seventh looks so inviting!' said Mr.
Kingsland, rising and strolling off.

'Isn't it too much!' said Kitty Fisher. 'See here, girls and
boys, listen,'--and heads and voices too went down below
recognition.

A little later in the evening, Gotham from his seclusion in
the servants' quarters was summoned to speak to a lady. He
found awaiting him, not his mistress, but a wonderful pyramid
of white tarletan from which issued a voice.

'Miss Hazel is going to spend the night with Mrs. Seaton, and
she sends you word that you may go home and come back for her
at eight o'clock in the morning.'

'Ain't that clever?' said Phinny to the cavalier on whose arm
she leaned, as they retraced their way towards the lighted
portion of the grounds. 'Now I have disposed of one trouble.'

All unconscious of this machination Wych Hazel kept on her
walk--the only thing she could decide to do to-night. In fact
the girl hardly knew her own mood. Of course the strictures
that had been made were all unfounded, as touching her; but
the words had given such pain at the time, that the very idea
of dancing made her wince as if she heard them again. That
would wear off, of course, but for the present she would walk;
and had, as Molly guessed, put on her long train as a token.
But when the concert began to tend towards the German, another
fancy seized her: to stay and look on, and get that outside
view which was almost unknown. And so when the first set was
forming she released Major Seaton for his partner, and again
took Mr. May's arm and walked towards the dancers.

'My dear,' said Mme. Lasalle, coming up on the other side,
'are you not dancing?'

'As you see, Madame!' said Hazel, with a slight bend and
laugh.

'_You_ not dancing! What's the matter?'

'Well--you will find it is a freak, or I tired myself last
night, or I want to make a sensation--according to whom you
ask,' said Wych Hazel.

'You are not forbidden?' whispered the lady, in a lower tone.

'No, Madame.'

'You seem to have so many guardians,' the lady went on,--'and
guardians are selfish, my dear; horribly selfish. For that, I
think all men are, whether guardians or not.'

'Just now,' said Wych Hazel, 'I am the selfish one,--keeping
Mr. May from dancing.' Which supposed view of the case Mr.
May, like a wise man, did not try to answer--just then.

The German began. One or two ordinary figures first, but
watched by Wych Hazel with eager eyes.

'Yes, of course!' she said to herself, as Kitty Fisher went
round with her head on her partner's shoulder,--'if he thought
I did that.' _Could_ he think it?--the little white glove tips so
nearly withdrew themselves from the black coat-sleeve they
were touching, that Mr. May turned to ask if she was tired and
wished to sit down.

But motions that were pretty to look at followed: each couple
in turn passing through an avenue of little coloured flags,
which held out by the motionless couples on either side, met
and crossed over the heads of the dancers. Down came Stuart
Nightingale and Miss Fisher, and Mr. Burr and Phinny Powder,
and Major Seaton and Miss May,--Wych Hazel looked on, smiling,
and with a stir of her little right foot. How often she had
come down just so! Then began a figure that she did not know:
they were going to 'practise,' Kitty Fisher called out,
recommending her to come.

'You won't know how next time.'

'Thank you, I can learn by looking on.'

And so she stood still and watched. Watched to see the ladies,
armed with long reins and a whip, driving their partners
cheerfully from point to point, with appropriate gestures and
sounds and frolic. The little bells tinkled gleefully, the
many-coloured leading-strings mingled in a kaleidoscope
pattern.

'Symbolical,' Mr. Kingsland remarked, standing near. 'This is
the "Bridle" figure, Miss Kennedy.'

'Unbridled' would be a better name, Miss Kennedy thought, but
she said not a word; only her lips curled disdainfully. But,
'driving men is easy work,' as Phinney Powder said, and so
this 'practice' soon gave way to another still more striking.
The ladies ranged themselves, standing well apart from each
other, and among the gentlemen was a general flutter of white
handkerchiefs. What were they going to do? 'Bonds' was the
word that occurred to Hazel this time, as she stood leaning a
little forward in interested expectation. And so it proved,--
but not just as she had expected. To be tied by the hand would
be bad enough, but by the foot!--and yet,--yes, certainly Major
Seaton's handkerchief was round Kitty Fisher's pretty ankle--to
the discomfiture of several other handkerchiefs of like
intentions,--and Miss Powder had Stuart Nightingale at her
feet,--and Phinny--

But who did it for whom, Wych Hazel scarcely thought until
afterwards. She looked on for a minute at the scuffling,
laughing, romping; then drew back with a deep flush.

'Did they think they could do that with _me!_' she said, under
her breath. And what could her companion do but feel ashamed
of every man he had ever seen do 'that' for any woman?

The course of things was changed after a time by Mr.
Nightingale's coming up and asking her to walk. He had made
over the 'practice' to somebody else, professing that he knew
the figures already. Perhaps somewhat in his companion's
manner struck him, for he remarked, quite philosophically, as
they moved into the shadow of the shrubbery, that 'society is
a problem!'

'Is it?' said Hazel, to whom problems (out of books) were as
yet in a happy distance. 'What needs solution, Mr.
Nightingale?'

'Is it possible you do not see?'

'Not a bit. I did not know society was deep enough to be
called a problem.'

' "Glissez, mortels; n'appuyez pas." '

'Well, people do not,' said Wych Hazel.

'And had best not. Nothing is more graceful than the state of
bold and brave innocence.'

Hazel mused a little at that, half unconsciously getting up a
problem of her own. Was he talking of _her_ 'innocence?' did he,
too, see things which she did not? And was this another
warning? Yet no one more forward to draw her into round dances
than Stuart Nightingale. He began again in another tone.

'You are determined not to dance to-night?'

'Yes. Am I part of the problem?'

He laughed a little. 'You would not be a true woman if you
were not.'

'You may as well give up trying to understand _me_,' said Wych
Hazel, gaily. 'Mr. Falkirk and I have been at it for years,
and the puzzle is a puzzle yet.'

'Confess, you like to be a puzzle.'

'One may as well make the best of one's natural advantages,'
said Hazel with a laugh. 'I suppose if I were what people call
"limpid," and "transparent," I might like that too.' But the
clear girlish purity of the depths referred to was as
transparent as the Summer blue.

'Have you ever been told,' said Stuart, lowering his voice a
little, 'of your very remarkable resemblance to one of the
greatest puzzles of history?'

'No,' said Hazel. 'And you do not know me well enough to tell
what I resemble.'

'Pardon me--pardon me! Do you think I could not have told,
after that one first meeting in the wood?'

'If you could,' said Wych Hazel, with a lift of her eyebrows,
'I cannot imagine how society can be a problem to you, Mr.
Nightingale.'

'There never was but one woman, of those whose pictures have
come down to us, whose mouth could be at once so mischievous
and so sweet. You are aware the mouth is the index to the
character?'

Hazel answered with some reserve (direct compliments always
gave her a check)

'No--Yes. I have heard people say so.'

'And you know the woman I mean?'

'She is bound to be a witch!--but further than that--'

'The likeness is really remarkable,' said Stuart, seriously;
'you have the Mary Stuart brow exactly, and the mouth, as I
said; and I think, as far as difference of colour admits
similarity of effect, the eyes have the same trick of power. I
suppose you like power?'

'I suppose I should! Mr. Falkirk ties up all my power, and
labels it "Edge tools," ' said Wych Hazel.

'I suppose it cuts its way out, and so justifies him. Don't
you have your own way generally?'

'Well, between taking it, and coaxing it out, and refusing to
take any other, I do have it sometimes,' said Wych Hazel.

'Is Mr. Falkirk much of an ogre? I do not know him. Difficult
to manage?'

'He thinks I am,' said Wych Hazel. 'No, he is not an ogre at
all, except officially.'

'Does he pretend to exercise much supervision over your
doings?'

'Pretend?' she repeated. 'He has the right, Mr. Nightingale.
And did ever a man have a right and not give it an airing now
and then?'

Stuart laughed, and laughed again. 'Don't be hard on us!' he
pleaded.

'Truth is not slander.'

'But are not women as fond of power, and wont to exercise it
as ruthlessly, as ever men are?'

'It is not a strong power, if they do.'

'Take care,' said Stuart. 'Honour bright!--while Mr. Falkirk
thinks things go according to his will, don't they really go
by yours?'

'No,' said Wych Hazel, 'when he _thinks_ they do, they _do_,--when
they do not, he knows it.'

'Then you are _not_ free. That is hard!--hard upon you. A
mother's authority is one thing; a guardian's, I should think,
is something very different. Does he interfere with your
dancing?'

'No.'--Hazel herself hardly knew why words suddenly became
scarce.

'I thought you were very fond of it.'

'O, I am!'

'Then why will you not honour me and please yourself to-
night?'

' "Why" is safe, while "why" keeps hid. All women know that,'
said Wych Hazel.

'You best of all,' said Stuart. 'I dare say it is just to make
us miserable. But now I am coming to you with a more serious
request. Will you help us in some private theatricals?'

'I?--O, I could not. I know nothing about the matter. Never
went to a theatre in my life, to begin with.'

'So much the better. I know you will do it to perfection. In
the first place you are not vain; and in the second place you
are independent; and an actor should be free in both respects.
And of positive qualifications you are full. Say you will
try!'

'I am the worst person to make believe that ever you saw,'
said Wych Hazel. 'I doubt if I could counterfeit anybody else
for ten minutes.'

'Precisely!' said Stuart in a contented tone. 'You would not
counterfeit. Good acting is not counterfeiting--it is nature.
You will help us? Say you will!'

'O, if I can--certainly.'

Before Wych Hazel's lips had fairly got the words out, the two
found themselves suddenly flush with Mr. Rollo, standing by
the side of the way under a laburnum tree, which was hung with
lights instead of its natural gold pendants.

Swiftly as only thoughts can, they rushed through the girl's
mind on the instant. Then he was here! And of course he knew
she was not dancing,--and _of course_ he must think--There was
another figure beginning--she might go and join that. No!--not
with him to look on, making mental comments: that would be
simply unendurable. Then she must tell him it was not for what
he had said. And she could not tell him that, because it was!--
Only in a different way. And how was she to talk to him of
'ways,' or of anything else, after last night? The result of
all which lucubrations was, that she bent her head gravely--and
it may be said somewhat lower than usual--in silent
acknowledgment of Mr. Rollo's presence. She was desperately
afraid of him to-night. But though he stepped up and spoke to
her, it was in the indifferent tone of ordinary business.

'On my way here I got something that I think I ought to give
to you. By and by, when you are at leisure, will you command
my presence?'

'I can take it now.'

'No,' said he carelessly, 'I will not interrupt you. I should
have to explain. I will be on the lawn in front of the
concert-saloon when you want me.'

He bowed and fell back from them.

'Have you _two_ guardians?' said Stuart slyly.

'No.'

'Just a little more assurance than necessary, in his
communication.'

'What do you consider the proper amount?' said Wych Hazel,
retreating to carelessness in her turn.

'I should not dare offer any,' said Stuart. 'It is with
nothing of the kind that I venture to ask if you will ride
with me to-morrow.'

'Ah, I would if I could!' said the girl longingly. 'I would
give almost anything to be on horseback again. But my horses
have not come, and till then I must wait.'

'Let me offer one of my aunt's horses!' said Stuart eagerly.
But Hazel shook her head.

'I cannot take it--Mr. Falkirk will let me mount none but my
own.'

'Is it reasonable to yield obedience so far, and with so
little ground?'

'It is comfortable,' said Hazel with a laugh. 'O yes, I
suppose it is reasonable, too.'

The walk went on and the talk; each in its way wandering along
through moonlight and among flowers, and then Hazel bethought
her that what she had to do must be done before she went home.
So mustering up her courage, she seated herself on one of the
broad stone steps at the side door, and despatched her escort
to the front for Mr. Rollo. Presently he came, and sat down
beside her.

'At what hour did you order your carriage?' he asked in a low
tone.

'Gotham was to wait.'

'He has gone home. I met him as I came.'

'Gone home? O he is only driving around to keep his horse
awake. It is not a fiery turnout, by any means.'

'He has gone home,' Rollo repeated smiling, 'and I did not
know enough to order him about again. But I sent word to Mr.
Falkirk that I would take care of you.'

The girl's brows lifted, then drew slightly together.

'Thank you--,' she said, with rather stately hesitation,--'but
as Mr. Falkirk will send Gotham straight back, I had better
wait.'

'After my message, Mr. Falkirk will not do that,' said Rollo,
looking at his watch. 'It is half-past twelve o'clock.'

Hazel leaned her chin in her hand and looked off into the
moonshine. She did not feel like being 'taken care of,' a bit,
to-night.

'I am afraid circumstances are affecting Mr. Falkirk's mind,'
she said at last, with a tone just a trifle provoked; for
half-past twelve was a stubborn fact to deal with. 'Well, Mr.
Rollo--if I can by no means save you the trouble, at what hour
will it please you to take it?'

'As there are evidently plots against you, suppose you come to
the other side-door, and let us go off without speaking to
anybody?'

And so it came to pass that in a few minutes more they were
comfortably driving homewards, without supervision, the silent
groom behind them not counting one.

They were in a light phaeton, with a new horse in it which
could go; the old moon was just rising over the trees; the
road free, the pace good. The gentleman's tone when he spoke
was rather indicative of enjoyment.

'Who is plotting against you?'

'Plotting!--'

'And now disappointed?'

'O, it is just some of Gotham's stupidity,' said Wych Hazel,
with a voice not yet at rest: she had been oddly conscious of
wishing that no one should hear her whispered good-night to
Mrs. Seaton and follow to see with whom she went home. 'He and
I are always at cross purposes.'

'A lady in a white dress brought him the message, he says. But
to change the subject--What is your favourite pleasure?'

'Riding the wind.'

'Do you remember once--a great while ago--promising to give me
an afternoon some time?'

'Did I? it must have been a great while,' said Wych Hazel. 'O
yes, I do remember. Well?'

'Will you put to-morrow afternoon at my disposal?'

'If the thing to be done is within walking distance. Mr.
Falkirk will not let me ride.'

'I have brought home, I think, a nice little saddle horse,
which I should like to have you try,' Rollo went on, not
heeding this.

'Oh!' she said, with unmistakeable longing. 'But he has made
me refuse at least five-and-forty just such horses this
summer.'

'He will be amenable to reason to-morrow,' said Rollo
comfortably. 'Shall I tell you what I want to do with you
after I have got you on horseback?'

'Let me run--I hope,' said Wych Hazel.

'I am going to take you where you have never been yet; through
Morton Hollow and the mills, to see my old nurse, who lives a
little way beyond them.'

'I am not going through Morton Hollow,' said Hazel, decidedly.

'Why not?'

'You never heard of seven _women_ who could "render a reason,"
did you?' said the girl, with a laugh in her voice.

'My old nurse is a character,' Rollo went on. 'She is a Norse
woman. My mother, I must tell you, was also a Norse woman. My
father's business at one time kept him much in Denmark and at
St. Petersburg; and at Copenhagen he met my mother, who had
been sent there to school. And when my mother forsook her
country, the old nurse, not old then, left all to go with her.
She was my nurse in my earliest years, and remained our most
faithful friend while we were a family. She made afterwards a
not very happy marriage; and when her husband died just before
I went to Europe, she was left alone and poor. I arranged a
small house for her in the neighbourhood of the Hollow; and
there she lives--a kind of mysterious oracle to the people
about. And her greatest earthly pleasure, I suppose, is to
have me come and see her. Gyda Boerresen is her name.'

'I like to see people enjoy their greatest earthly happiness,'
said Hazel thoughtfully. 'I never did many times. Or at least
not many people.'

'I want you to know Gyda. I am not superstitious, like some of
the ignorant people who visit her; but yet'--he paused. 'If
ever you were in need of womanly counsel--if ever you wanted
sympathizing and wise help--to find your way out of
perplexities--I should say, go to Gyda. If any one could give
that sort of help, she would. And it is almost like going to a
pythoness', added Rollo thoughtfully; 'she is so cut off from
the world and its people.'

They were almost at Mr. Falkirk's cottage. Rollo was silent a
moment, then said, 'May I ask Mrs. Bywank to shew me
hospitality again to-night? I don't want to go home.'

'Mrs. Bywank will be only too glad,' said Wych Hazel. 'The
little tower room always goes by your name, Mr. Rollo.'

'She did not put me there the last time,' said he, laughing,
'I was lodged in state and splendour! Well, good night. I wish
you were coming to breakfast.'

She stood silent a minute, looking down. Could she? Might she?
Would it do? Run away from Mr. Falkirk for a private frolic on
the hill? It was a great temptation!

And only doing the honours of her own house, when all was
said. Would it be strange? Would he think it strange? That is,
not Mr. Falkirk, but Mr. Rollo. Was he a man of sense, she
wondered, who always disapproved of everything? And with that
a child's look of search and exploration sought his face.
There was a grave sparkle in the eyes she met looking down at
her.

'I see a question in your face,' said he. 'And I answer,--yes!'

'Very unsafe to answer anything in my face,' said the girl,
hastily withdrawing her eyes. 'There were _two_ questions in my
mind. Good night, Mr. Rollo, and thank you.'

'Think better of it!'--said Rollo, as he got into the carriage
again.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

BREAKFAST FOR THREE.


Mrs. Bywank, inspecting her breakfast table from time to time,
certainly had Mr. Rollo's wish in her heart, even though it
got no further. And setting on orange marmalade for him, she
pleased herself with also setting on honey for _her;_ even
though the portrait of a little child was all the sign of her
young lady the room could boast. But long habit had made it
second nature to watch that face, no matter what else she was
about. Mrs. Bywank looked and smiled and sighed, and bent down
to see if the honey was perfect. It was late in the morning
now: Mr. Rollo's slumbers had been allowed to extend
themselves somewhat indefinitely in the direction which most
men approve; and still breakfast waited, down stairs; and Mrs.
Bywank at the tower window gazed down the slope and over the
trees towards Wych Hazel's present abiding place. Not
expecting to see her, but watching over her in her heart. So
standing, she was hailed by a cheery 'good morning' behind
her.

'I suppose people who turn day into night have no right to
expect the day will keep its promises to them; but you are
better than my deserts, Mrs. Bywank. I see a breakfast table!'

'Always ready for you, Mr. Rollo! And you must be very ready
too, by this time,' she said, sounding her whistle down the
stairs. 'Was Miss Wych at Oak Hill last night, sir?'

'I had the pleasure of bringing her home.'

'O, did you, sir?' said Mrs. Bywank, with a quick look. 'She
told me she meant to go,--but her mind comes about wonderfully
sudden sometimes. Here is breakfast, Mr. Rollo. Will you take
your old seat?'

'I think it will always come about in the right place at
last,' said Rollo, as he complied with the invitation. The old
housekeeper drew a sigh, looking up at the little picture.

'My pretty one!' she said. Then applied herself to filling Mr.
Rollo's cup. 'Yes, sir, you're right,' she went on after a
pause. 'And she never would stop in a wrong one, not a minute,
but for just a few things.'

'Mrs. Bywank,' said the young man, 'those few things are all
around her.'

'You'd think so if you could hear the serenades I hear,' said
the housekeeper, 'and see the flowers--and hear the
compliments. She tells them to me sometimes, making fun. But
the trouble is with Miss Wych, she never will see the world
with any eyes but her own,--and who's to make her?'

A problem which Rollo considered in silence, and probably
swallowed instead of his coffee.

Copyright (c) 2007. topmasterworks.com. All rights reserved.