THE QUEST.
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling
And out he rode.
--Hudibras.
Pursuant to the orders of Major Warfield, the corpse of the old midwife
was the next day after her decease brought over and quietly interred in
the family graveyard of Hurricane Hall.
And then Major Warfield astonished his household by giving orders to his
housekeeper and his body-servant to prepare his wardrobe and pack his
trunks for a long journey to the north.
"What can the major be thinking of, to be setting out for the north at
this time of the year?" exclaimed good little Mrs. Condiment, as she
picked over her employer's shirts, selecting the newest and warmest to
be done up for the occasion.
"Lord A'mighty o'ny knows; but 'pears to me marster's never been right
in his headpiece since Hollow-eve night, when he took that ride to the
Witch's Hut," replied Wool, who, with brush and sponge, was engaged in
rejuvenating his master's outer garments.
But, let his family wonder as they would, Old Hurricane kept his own
counsel--only just as he was going away, lest mystery should lead to
investigation, and that to discovery, the old man gave out that he was
going north to invest capital in bank stock, and so, quite unattended,
he departed.
His servant Wool, indeed, accompanied him as far as Tip-Top, the little
hamlet on the mountain at which he was to meet the eastern stage; but
there having seen his master comfortably deposited in the inside of the
coach, and the luggage safely stowed in the boot, Wool was ordered to
return with the carriage. And Major Warfield proceeded on his journey
alone. This also caused much speculation in the family.
"Who's gwine to make his punch and warm his bed and put his slippers on
the hearth and hang his gown to de fire?--that what I want to know!"
cried the grieved and indignant Wool.
"Oh, the waiters at the taverns where he stops can do that for him,"
said Mrs. Condiment.
"No, they can't, nuther; they don't know his ways! they don't know
nuffin' 'bout him! I 'clare, I think our ole marse done gone clean
crazy! I shouldn't be s'prised he'd gone off to de norf to get married,
and was to bring home a young wife to we dem!"
"Tut! tut! tut! such talk! That will never do!" exclaimed the deeply
shocked Mrs. Condiment.
"Werry well! All I say is, 'Dem as libs longest will see most!'" said
Wool, shaking his white head. After which undeniable apothegm the
conversation came to a stand.
Meanwhile, Old Hurricane pursued his journey--a lumbering, old-fashioned
stage-coach ride--across the mountains, creeping at a snail's crawl up
one side of the precipice and clattering thunderously down the other at
a headlong speed that pitched the back-seat passengers into the bosoms
of the front ones and threatened even to cast the coach over the heads
of the horses. Three days and nights of such rugged riding brought the
traveler to Washington City, where he rested one night and then took the
cars for New York. He rested another night in Philadelphia, resumed his
journey by the first train in the morning and reached New York about
noon.
The crowd, the noise, the hurry and confusion at the wharf almost drove
this irascible old gentleman mad.
"No, confound you!"
"I'll see your neck stretched first, you villain!"
"Out of my way, or I'll break your head, sirrah!" were some of his
responses to the solicitous attentions of cabmen and porters. At length,
taking up his heavy carpet-bag in both hands, Old Hurricane began to lay
about him, with such effect that he speedily cleared a passage for
himself through the crowd. Then addressing a cabman who had not offended
by speaking first, he said:
"Here, sir! Here are my checks! Go get my luggage and take it to the
Astor House. Hand the clerk this card, and tell him I want a good room,
well warmed. I shall take a walk around the city before going. And, hark
ye! If one of my trunks is missing I'll have you hanged, you rogue!"
"Breach of trust isn't a hanging matter in New York, your honor,"
laughed the cabman, as he touched his hat and hurried off toward the
crowd collected around the baggage car.
Old Hurricane made a step or two as if he would have pursued and
punished the flippancy of the man, but finally thought better of it,
picked up his portmanteau and walked up the street slowly, with frequent
pauses and bewildered looks, as though he had forgotten his directions
or lost his way, and yet hesitated to inquire of any one for the obscure
little alley in which he had been told to look for his treasure.