Wych Hazel

by Susan Warner; Anna Bartlett Warner

CHAPTER XXI.

MOONSHINE.

After the day of rain, and the afternoon of clearing wind and clouds, the evening of Mrs. Merrick's party passed into one of those strange, unearthly nights when the whole world seems resolved into moonlight and a midsummer night's dream. So while gas and hot-house flowers had it all their own way in the house at Merricksdale, over the rest of the outside world the wondrous moonlight reigned supreme. Not white and silvery, but as it were gilded and mellowed with the summer warmth. Step by step it invaded the opening ranks of forest trees; and dark shadows wound noiselessly away from the close pursuit. Not a wind whispered; not a moving thing was in sight along the open road. Except indeed Mr. Rollo, who—not invited to Mrs. Merrick's, and just returned from a short journey—was getting over the ground that lay between the railway station and home on foot. And his way took him along the highway that stretched from Crocus to the gates of Chickaree.

Now moonlight is a very bewildering thing—and thoughts do sometimes play the very will-o'-the-wisp with one. And when somebody you know is at a party, there is a funny inclination to go through the motions at least, and be up as late as anybody else. So it was with a somewhat sudden recollection that Mr. Rollo bethought him of what his watch might say. Just then he was in a belt of shadow, where trees crowded out the moon; but the next sharp turn of the road was all open and flooded with the yellow light.

It would be quite too much to suppose that the gentleman in question was particularly open to impressions—and it is certain that his thoughts at that minute were well wrapped up in their own affairs; and yet as he went round the turn, passing out of the line of shadow into absolute moonshine again, there came upon him a strange sense of some presence there besides his own. But what the evidence was, whether it had smote upon his eye or upon his ear, of that Mr. Rollo was profoundly ignorant. Yet it is safe to say that he came out of his musings and looked about him. Only a midsummer night's dream still: the open road for a mile ahead in full view, the dark line of trees on each side as motionless as if asleep. But the utter hush was perhaps more suggestive than the stir of a breezy night: it seemed as if everything was listening and held its breath to hear.

The gentleman in question, however, was not one to let slip such a suggestion to his nerves—or his senses. His nerves were of the coolest and steadiest kind; he could depend on them for getting up no shams to puzzle him; and his senses had had capital training. Eye and ear were keen almost as those of some of the wild creatures whose dependence they are; and Rollo had the craft and skill of a practised hunter. So instead of dismissing the fancy that had struck him, as most men would, he fell noiselessly into the shadow again, with eyes and ears alive on the instant to take evidence that might be relied on. But nothing stirred. Nothing shewed. Except as before, the yellow moonlight and the dark trees. Rollo was a hunter, and patient. He stood still. The shadowy edges of the stream of light changed slowly, slightly, and still the evidence he looked for did not come. Nothing seemed to change but those dark fringes; only now some wave of the branches as the wind began to rise, let in the moonlight for a moment upon a small white speck across the road. He thought so: something whiter than a wet stone or a bleached stick,—or it might be fancy. Noiselessly and almost invisibly, for Dane could move like an Indian, and with such quickness, he was over the road and at the spot. There was no mistaking the token—it was a little glove of Wych Hazel's. Evidently dropped in haste; for one of her well-known jewelled fastenings lay glittering in his hand. But—Mrs. Gen. Merrick lived quite in another quarter of the world; and in no case did the direct road from Merricksdale lead by here.

If Rollo's senses had been alive before, which was but their ordinary and normal condition, he was now in the frame of mind of a Sioux on the war-path, and in corresponding alertness and acuteness of every faculty. The little glove was swiftly put where it would furnish a spot of light to no one else; and in breathless readiness for action, though that is rhetorical, for Rollo's breath was as regular and as calm as cool nerves could make it, he subsided again into the utter inaction which is all eye and ear. And then in a few minutes, from across the road again, and near where he was at first, came these soft words:

'Mr. Rollo—will you give quarter if I surrender at discretion?
Just to save you trouble—and let me get home the quicker.'

In the next instant the gentleman stood by the lady's side. Well for him that he was a hunter, and that habit is a great thing; for he made no exclamations and showed no disturbance, though Wych Hazel in the woods at that time of night, was a thing to try most people's command of words at least. Only in the spring which brought him across the road he had spoken the one word "Hazel!" louder than an Indian would have done. Then he stood beside her. Wych Hazel herself—bareheaded, without gloves, her little white evening cloak not around her shoulders, but rolled up into the smallest possible compass, and held down by her side. She had been standing in the deepest depth of shadow under a low drooping hemlock, and now came out to meet him. But she seemed to have no more words to give. That something had happened, was very clear. Rollo's first move was to take the girl's hand, and the second to inquire in a low voice how she came there. The hand-touch was not in compliment, but such a taking-possession clasp as Hazel had felt from it before; one that carried, as a hand-clasp can, its guaranty of protection, guidance, defence.

Hazel did not answer at first—only there went a shiver over her from head to foot; and her hand was as cold as ice.

'I am very glad to find you, Mr. Rollo,' she said in a sort of measured voice; he could not tell what was in it.—'Will you walk home with me?'

Rollo's answer was not in a hurry. He first took from Wych Hazel her little bundle of the opera cloak, shook it out, and put it around her shoulders, drawing the fastening button at the throat; then taking the little cold hand in his clasp again, and with the other arm lingering lightly round her shoulders, he asked her "what had happened?"

People are different, as has been remarked. There was nobody in the world that could have put the question to Wych Hazel as he put it, and afterwards she could recognize that. Mr. Falkirk's words would have been more anxious; Dr. Maryland's would have been more astonished; and any one of Miss Hazel's admirers would have made speeches of surprise and sympathy and offered service. Rollo's was a business question, albeit in its somewhat curt accentuation there lurked a certain readiness for action; and there was besides, though indefinably expressed, the assumption of a right to know and a very intimate personal concern in the answer. How his eyes were looking at her the moonlight did not serve to shew; they were in shadow; yet even that was not quite hid from the object of them; and the arm that was round her was there, not in freedom-taking, but with the unmistakeable expression of shelter. So he stood and asked her what had happened.

'Thank you,' she said in the same measured tone. 'I am not cold—I think. But it is safe now. Will you walk home very fast, please? I promised Mr. Falkirk that I would be home by eleven!'—There was an accent of real distress then.

'Do you know what o'clock it is now?' said Rollo, drawing out his watch.

'I hoped—a while ago—it was near morning.'

He did not say what time it was. He put the little hand on his arm, guided Hazel into the road, and began his walk homeward, but with a measured quiet pace, not 'very fast.'

'Why did you wish it was morning?' he asked in the same way in which he had spoken before. No haste in it; calm business and self-possession; along with the other indications above mentioned. It was cool, but it was the coolness of a man intensely alive to the work in hand; the intonation towards Wych Hazel very gentle.

'I thought I had to walk home alone,' she said simply. 'And I wanted the time to come.'

'Please tell me the meaning of all this. You went to
Merricksdale this evening—last evening?'

'Yes.' Words did not come readily.

Rollo added no more questions then. He went steadily on, keeping a gentle pace that Wych Hazel could easily bear, until they came to the long grey stone house where she had once run in from the storm. At the gate Rollo paused and opened it, leading his companion up to the door.

'I am going to take you in here for a little while,' he said.
'We will disturb nobody—don't fear; I have a key.'

'In here?' she said, rousing up then. 'O no!—I must go home,
Mr. Rollo. Did you bring me this way—I did not notice.'

'You shall go home just as soon as possible,' he said; 'but come in here and I will tell you my reasons for stopping.'

The door opened noiselessly. The moonlight showed the way, shining in through the fanlights, and Rollo pushed open the door of the library and brought his charge in there. The next thing was to strike a match and light two candles. The room looked very peaceful, just as it had been deserted by the family a few hours before; Rosy's work basket with the work overflowing it, the books and papers on the table where the gentleman had been sitting; the chairs standing where they had been last used. Past the chairs Rollo brought Wych Hazel to the chintz sofa and seated her there with a cushion at her back; drew up a foot cushion, and unfastened her opera cloak. All this was done with quiet movements and in silence. He left her then for a few minutes. Coming back, presented her on a little tray a glass of milk and a plate of rusks.

'I could get nothing else,' said he, 'without rousing the people up to give me keys. But I know the way to Prim's dairy— and I know which are the right pans to go to. Miss Prudentia always objected to that in me.'

'But I cannot see anybody—nor speak to anybody—nor do anything—till I have seen Mr. Falkirk,' said Hazel, looking up at him with her tired eyes. 'Indeed I am not hungry.'

He stood before her and bade her 'drink a little milk—it was good.'

Her brows drew together slightly, but—if that was the quickest way she would take that—and so half emptied the tumbler and set it down again.

'Now let us go.'

He at down before her then.

'Is there anything in what has happened to-night which makes you wish to keep it from the rest of the world? except of course Mr. Falkirk and me?'

If his object was to rouse her from the mechanical way in which she had hitherto moved and spoken, success is rarely more perfect. Crimson and scarlet and all shades of colour went over her face and neck at the possible implications in his words; but she drew herself up with a world of girlish dignity, and then the brown eyes looked straight into his.

'It is nobody's business,' she answered. 'So far.—No further.'

He smiled. 'You mistake me,' he said, very pleasantly. 'That is my awkwardness. It is nobody's business—except Mr. Falkirk's and mine. But you know very well that fact is no bar to people's tongues. And sometimes one does not choose to give them the material—and sometimes one does not care. My question meant only, do you care in this instance? and was a practical question.'

'What do you mean?' she said, quickly. 'Say out all that is in your mind. How can I judge of it by inches.'

'You have not enlightened me,' he said, 'and I can judge of nothing. Do you wish to get home without letting anybody know you have been out? or may I call Primrose down and give you into her hands to be taken care of? Surely you know my other question referred not to anything but the impertinence of the world generally.'

'O! I will go home!' she said, rising up. 'I cannot see anybody. And Mr. Falkirk!—He might send for me!'

'Mr. Falkirk is fast asleep,' said Rollo. 'He will have concluded that you were kept at Mrs. Merrick's. Sit down again, and rest,' he said, gently putting her back on the cushions, (he had risen when she rose)—'we are not ready to go quite yet. You must take breath first. And we must not rouse up Chickaree at this hour. If you were known to have staid with Miss Maryland—would not that be the best way?'

'How is one to know the best, where all are bad?'—Hazel rested her head in her hands and sat thinking.

'No,' said he quietly—'we'll try and not have that true. If you could trust me with the story of the evening, I might be able to judge and act better for you.'

'Did you bring me here that I might not get home at such an hour?' she said suddenly, looking up.

'I promised to tell you my reasons. Yes, that was one of them. The people at Chickaree must not know of your coming home in the middle of the night, on foot. If I take you home at a fair hour in the morning, it will be all right. Not on foot,' said he, smiling. He was so composed and collected, that his manner had everything in it to soothe and reassure her. Not the composure of one who does not care, but of one who will take care.

'And Mr. Falkirk would say the same,'—she spoke as if reasoning the matter out with herself. 'Then I must wait. But do not call anybody. Mayn't I sit here just quietly by myself?'

'Suppose you take possession of one of Prim's spare rooms, and astonish the family at breakfast? All you need say is that you came after they were all gone to their rooms. Dr. Maryland will never seek for a reason. And Prim will never ask for one. But if you prefer it, I will take you home before they are up.'

'Just as you please,' she answered wearily: indeed weariness was fast getting the upper hand. 'You must want rest, I should think. What were you doing there?' she asked with her former suddenness. 'Were you looking for me? Did you know where I was—not?'

'No,' he said, smiling again, 'I had been to Troy to look at some horses, about which I had been in correspondence; and wishing to be here to-morrow—that is, to-day!—it pleased me to take a night train which set me down at Henderson; no nearer; I was walking across country to get home. And I feel as if I never should be "tired" again. Come—you can have some time of rest at least; and I will carry you home before or after breakfast, just as you please.'

Upstairs with noiseless footfalls—and Rollo reminding Wych Hazel which was Primrose's room, indicated another close by, within which he said he believed she would find what she wanted. That room was always kept in order for strangers; and no strangers were in the house now.

'Primrose will come to you in the morning,' he said, 'unless you wish to go before that?'

Wych Hazel turned and held out her hand.

'Thank you!' she said. Then in answer to his last words—'I shall be ready for either.'

Wherein, however, Miss Kennedy made a mistake. For having once put herself down on the fresh white bed, sleep took undisputed possession and held it straight on. Neither rousing bell nor breakfast bell roused her; nor opening door—if any opened; nor steps—if any came. Sleep so profound that she never turned nor stirred nor raised her cheek from the hand where first she laid it down. And the sun was getting a new view of the western slopes of the Chickaree woods, before the young mistress thereof sat up in her strange room and looked about her.

'Well, you are awake at last!' cried Prim, bending to kiss her. 'I am glad! though I was glad to have you sleep, too. How tired you were!'

Wych Hazel passed her hands over her face; but the newt move was to put her arms round Prim's neck and for a moment her head on Prim's shoulder. Then she sprang up and hurriedly shook her dress into some sort of order.

'O! I have slept a great deal too long,' she said.

'Why? No, you have slept just enough. Now you would like to change your dress. There is a valise full of things from home for you. And when you are ready you shall have some breakfast, or dinner, or tea, just which you like to call it.'

Primrose could not read the look and flush that greeted the valise; and indeed she needed an entire new dictionary for her friend this day. When Hazel made her appearance down stairs, hat in hand, she had more things in her face than Prim had ever met, even in dreams. Dr. Maryland was not there; the table was spread in the library, where the afternoon light poured in through its green veil of branches and leaves; and Prim gave her guest a new greeting, as glad as if she had given her none before.

'I'm sure of having you hungry, now, Hazel,' she exclaimed. 'I didn't know what was best to give you; but Duke said coffee would be sure to be right.'

'I wonder if you ever suggest anything which he does not think is "sure to be right"?' said Wych Hazel. 'I wonder if anybody down here ever makes a mistake of any sort?'

'Mistakes? oh! plenty,' said Primrose. 'I do; and I suppose
Duke does. I don't know about papa. Now, dear Hazel, sit down.
Duke will be here directly.'

And Primrose cut bread and poured out coffee and supplied her guest, in a sort of passion of hospitality.

To say that the guest was as hungry as she should have been after such a fast, would be perhaps too much; last night was still too fresh for that; but seventeen has great restorative powers at command, and Prim's coffee was undeniably good. Hazel grew more like herself as the meal went on, though her eyes kept their tired look, and her manner was a trifle abstracted. But Prim asked no questions; only hovered about her with all sorts of affectionate words and ways, till Rollo came in. He sat down and began to make himself generally useful, in his wonted manner.

'Duke,' said Primrose, 'Miss Kennedy has been asking me if we ever make mistakes in this house!'

'What did you tell her?'

'Why you know what I told her. I am not sure about papa; but the rest of us don't boast of infallible wisdom.'

'Do you mean that he does?' said Duke, drily. At which
Primrose laughed. 'Have you been asleep, Miss Hazel?'

'Beyond reach of all earthly things. Have you?'

Rollo remarked that he never got so far as that.

'No,' said Primrose, 'I never saw such a sleeper. He'll be sound asleep, sound and fast; not dreaming nor stirring; and if there comes the least little sound that there oughtn't to be, he's up and broad awake and in possession of all his senses in a minute.'

'How do you know?' said the subject of this description.

'I know,' said Primrose. 'Thunder wouldn't waken him; and the turning of a key in a lock would—suppose it was a time or place when the lock ought not to be turned.'

'Very interesting details!' said Rollo. 'They may be useful in the study of psychology—or physiology. Which is your favourite study, Miss Hazel?'

'Whichever will throw the most light upon this; Prim, can he also detect "the least little sound that oughtn't to be,' when there is none at all?' said Hazel thinking of last night.

'No, he can't,' said Rollo, shaking his head. 'That's a physiological question. But here is one in psychology: Can a person be sensible of an unknown presence when yet there is none?'

'Ah!' she said, drawing a long breath and growing grave all at once, 'I wish one might! It would have been a comfort.'

'Well,' said he, 'I think I can resolve that question.'

'Duke, what are you talking of? You have got out of philosophy into metaphysics,' said Prim.

'She is the philosopher of the family,' said Rollo, by way of explanation to Hazel. 'But she has made a mistake. As she confesses she does make them, I may remark that.'

'Why, you are talking of perceiving what does not exist!' cried Prim.

'Is that what you call metaphysics? I should call it nonsense.'

'I never supposed you were talking nonsense, Duke.'

'No,' said Duke. 'That would be a mistake. No, I was speaking, Prim, of the detection, by no visible or intelligible means, of what we are not aware has existence.'

'By no intelligible means,' said Prim. 'You mean, knowing a person is coming, that you have not heard is coming—and such things?'

'And knowing a person is near, who you had thought was very far off.'

'Yes,' said Prim thoughtfully; 'I know. It is very curious.'

'Witches, for instance?' said Hazel, with perfect gravity.

'No,' said Prim earnestly, 'I don't mean out-of-the-way people at all; though it is something "uncanny"—as it seems;—queer; I have heard of instances.'

'I have felt them,' said Rollo.

Primrose went into a brown study over the question.

'But do you think,' Rollo went on gravely addressing Wych Hazel, 'that this sort of mental action can take place except where there are strong sympathetic—or other—relations between the parties?'

'So that the magnet finds out the iron, when it would pass by the lead?—is that what you mean?'

A significant, quick, keen look; and then Rollo said, very gravely,

'But it strikes me we have got the thing reversed. Is it not rather the iron that finds the magnet?'

'The magnet must be conscious too,' said Hazel. 'And I think it moves—where the iron is in sufficient quantity.'

'It would be a poor rule that wouldn't work both ways,' said
Rollo, with dry simplicity.

'What are you talking about?' said Primrose. 'Do give Hazel some more raspberries. I am inclined to think this, Duke—'

'Well?'

'I am inclined to think that in those cases you have been speaking of, there is testimony of the person's presence, only it is in some such little slight things as were insufficient to draw attention to themselves, and only, by natural association of ideas, suggested the person.'

'What do you think, Miss Hazel?'

But she shook her head.

'If you go off to people—I should say, sometimes, that could not be.'

'So should I,' said Rollo.

'Why?' said Primrose.

'I cannot find in my consciousness, or memory, any corroboration of your theory.'

'I think I can in mine. Sometimes, at least.'

'Those are not my times,' said Rollo.

'And I don't know but you are right, too,' said Primrose, musing. 'I remember, that day you were coming home, I had not the least reason to think so, and yet you were in my mind all day.'

'What is your explanation then?' said he, smiling at her.

Prim was not ready with it; and before she was ready to speak again, Wych Hazel was informed that her escort was at her service.

Dr. Maryland's little old chaise was at the door. Rollo put Miss Kennedy in it and took the reins. It was late in the sweet Summer afternoon; the door and the road and the fields looked exceedingly unlike the same things seen in shadow and moonlight last night. Rollo never referred to that, however; he was just as usual; took care that Wych Hazel was comfortably seated, and made careless little remarks, in his wonted manner. Various people passed them; many were the greetings, answered for the most part very sedately by the young lady of Chickaree. But just as they entered the outskirts of her own domain, Rollo felt his companion shrink towards him with a sudden start. Then instantly she sat upright in her place. Two or three horsemen were in sight, at different distances; one, the nearest, was a stranger to Rollo. A remarkably handsome man, splendidly mounted, faultlessly dressed; riding his grey with the easy grace of a true cavalier. He uncovered before he was near enough to do more, and then bent even to his saddle-bow before Miss Kennedy. And to him, turning full upon him, did Miss Kennedy administer the most complete, cool, effectual cut that Mr. Rollo had ever seen bestowed. The rider's face turned crimson as he passed on.

Rollo made no sort of remark; drove gently, let the old horse come to a walk; and at last, throwing himself back into the corner of the chaise, so as to have a better look at his companion, he said:

'Does daylight and rest make a difference, and are you inclined to trust me with the explanation of what happened last night? I should be grateful.'

He could see now with what extreme effort she had done her work of execution—lip and chin were in a tremor.

'It was no want of trust, Mr. Rollo—I meant you should know. But—I could not tell you first,' she said rather timidly. 'I thought, perhaps, you would take the trouble to come in and hear me tell Mr. Falkirk.'

'Thank you,' he said, 'I am grateful.' And no more passed on the subject until the chaise reached the cottage.