Rutledge Part 24

"Careless girl," he said, gloomily, "what will you lose next?"

"It wasn't my fault; I've looked everywhere for it. Isn't it strange what has become of it?"

"Very strange," said Mr. Rutledge, gravely. "Indeed, I may say, in a high degree mysterious."

CHAPTER XVI.

"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!

My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright, My limbs are full of health and strength, My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light."

MACKAY.

"Why, which way are we going?" I exclaimed, as we turned off, on an opposite road, about quarter of a mile before reaching the well-remembered depot and gloomy suburbs which had been, I supposed, our destination.

"To tell you the truth," said my _compagnon de voyage_, "I have begun to look upon railroads as an invention of the enemy, and to prefer any other mode of travel. So that, considering we are both invalids (a fact you are constantly overlooking), and cannot bear fatigue or excitement, I have arranged our route after this manner: we drive, to-day, by easy stages as far as W.; then a night's rest there; and to-morrow morning go on to C., where we part with the carriage, and take the day-boat down the river, which will bring us to the haven of our desires to-morrow evening about seven o'clock. This seemed a more agreeable plan than going by cars, and I thought would be less fatiguing."

"_A la bonne heure!_" I cried, remembering it was three times as long as the railroad route.

It proved a most delightful journey; the further we went, the thinner the snow-clouds grew, and as the day wore on, they disappeared altogether, and the sun came out, faint and pale, and the air grew soft and mild. The carriage was the easiest imaginable, the roads were in good condition, the horses disdained their burden, and the occasional respites which their master decreed, the scenery was as varied and charming as inland scenery at that season of the year could possibly be; every change and amus.e.m.e.nt that the limits of the carriage admitted of, Mr. Rutledge's care had provided; and we were two companions who had at least the charm of freshness for each other, and were not as yet bored with one another's society, whatever we might be in the course of time.

We tried to read, but the pages of my new novel did not turn very fast; I gave it up before the heroine (the records of whose nursery reminiscences occupied two thirds of the volume) had entered her tenth year. Mr. Rutledge's review had, I afterward found, but two of the leaves cut, though he read it a.s.siduously for an hour and a half.

So we tacitly agreed to resign literature, and devote our attention to the scenery, which, as we approached the Hudson, certainly did grow worthy of attention. The purple-headed mountains already were discernible against the pale sky; the hills grew steeper, the roads wilder. There was an anecdote or a legend attached to every dark wood or antiquated farmhouse we pa.s.sed. Mr. Rutledge seemed to know every inch of the way, and to be familiar with its history since its settlement by the pale-faced gentry; though it is my belief, that where he did not know of any entertaining tradition "to cheat the toil, and cheer the way," he waived all conscientious regard to veracity, and improvised one on the spot. Very engrossing they were, however, whether manufactured from "whole cloth" or founded on fact, and it was quite three o'clock before any of the party (inside pa.s.sengers at least) began to revolve seriously the question of dinner. Then, however, it appeared that Mrs.

Roberts' care had provided us with the most delicate and tempting of collations, and we stopped to enjoy it at the outskirts of a little village, by the side of a fresh, clear brook that was on its way, I suppose, "to join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river," that was our destination also. We went by different routes, however, and I never have seen the pretty little eddying streamlet since that pleasant lunch upon its banks, when Mr. Rutledge filled my cup from its clear waters, and Thomas cooled the wine in its bosom. Rather a superfluous service, I couldn't help thinking, in consideration of the season and state of the thermometer; but it brought out in strong relief the methodic precision of Thomas'

mind. He was an invaluable machine; once wound up correctly, he ran for any given time, but as to any exercise of his reasoning faculties in the discharge of his duties, that was as totally wanting as in other machines. Any display of it from him, would have been as startling to his master, as it would have been, had the watch in his pocket suddenly addressed him in good English. Thomas, however, was just the servant for Mr. Rutledge; he would have been worse than useless to a lazy man who wanted a valet to take care of him; but Mr. Rutledge chose to do his own thinking in most cases, and only wanted his orders promptly executed, which Thomas certainly was capable of doing, and did to admiration.

A very nice lunch Mrs. Roberts had prepared for us, and we drank her health gratefully in some very superior Burgundy. We did not hurry ourselves at all; and as I treated Tigre to some of the remaining delicacies, and Thomas packed up the baskets again, Mr. Rutledge lazily sketched the group from the carriage window, on a blank leaf in my book; making rather a spirited drawing of it, only caricaturing grotesquely the length of Thomas' legs, and my eyelashes. Then we got _en route_ again, and with occasional stoppings to sketch, which I insisted on, and occasional pauses at village inns to water the horses, or rather to wash their faces, the afternoon wore on.

"Tired?" Of course not, never fresher in my life. What a nuisance railcars are, with their distracting racket and bustle and jar. Why do not people always travel in carriages?

Mr. Rutledge agreed with me that it was very pleasant; indeed, he seemed to enjoy it, just as he did that ride I had such good cause to remember.

He left all care and sadness behind at Rutledge, and gave himself up to the present. In that little travelling-cap, too, I was sure he didn't look a day over thirty.

"Mr. Rutledge, you look to-day so like that crayon sketch of your young relative, that you gave me. It is really wonderful."

Mr. Rutledge laughed, and asked me if I continued to admire it.

"Oh, as much as ever," I answered, laughing, and blushing, too, under cover of the twilight, for the short November day had faded. He evidently thought I was still deceived about the picture, and I did not enlighten him.

"I mean to hang it in the very best light in my room in New York, where I can look at it from 'morn to dewy eve,' if I choose."

"I advise you not; Josephine will ferret out the mystery, and expose your romantic devotion. She isn't given that way herself, and will not spare you. Your ideas of hero-worship and hers might not agree."

"Well, if they do not, it may prove fortunate in the end. We shall not be so likely to interfere with each other."

"If you do, 'may I be there to see!'"

"Which would you bet on?"

Mr. Rutledge, after a protest against such language from such lips, deliberated somewhat upon my question, and then favored me with his opinion. We were, he thought, in point of will, about equally matched; but my French-bred cousin, he was afraid, had a little the advantage of me in coolness, and had enjoyed the benefit of a training and experience which might tell heavily against me. And much more to the same effect, which I only laughed at then, but remembered afterward with less amus.e.m.e.nt.

All this while it was growing darker and darker, and we did not arrive at W----, as it was proper we should have done some time since. This seemed at length to strike Mr. Rutledge, and he called to Michael to know if he was sure of the road. Michael was sure, and again we went on.

At the end of another half hour, however, Mr. Rutledge again stopped him, and as it was too dark to see anything of the road, he directed him to drive toward the only light we could discover, which proved to emanate from the dingy window of a low farmhouse about a quarter of a mile off. At Thomas' thundering knock, appeared a bony rustic in his shirt-sleeves, who came wonderingly to the carriage, shading a candle with his hand, which threw fantastic shadows on his rough, open-mouthed visage, followed by an untidy-looking woman, and a whole troop of s.h.a.ggy, uncombed children, evidently just roused from their first nap.

Mr. Rutledge, after long perseverance, elicited the information that he sought, which proved anything but agreeable, being a confirmation of his fears. We had come five miles out of our way, W---- lying just ten miles to the south, while we had been, under Michael's guidance, pursuing a course due north.

Michael was a miserable and a scared man, when the thunders of his master's wrath fell upon him. Mr. Rutledge was not very demonstrative or vehement, but he conveyed the idea of an angry man as alarmingly as I should care to see it represented. No wonder Michael was scared; even I felt a little awe-struck till after he had shut the carriage door, and we had turned to retrace our course.

"Are you very tired?" he said. "I would not have had this happen upon any consideration. You will be utterly worn out, and unable to travel to-morrow. I thought I had arranged it admirably for you, but this Hibernian numbskull has upset it all."

I a.s.sured him that, on my account, he need not anathematize the luckless Michael further, for I was not in the least tired, and did not mind the detention at all. Owing to this little contretemps, it was ten o'clock when we arrived at W----, and halted at the door of its most promising hotel, which was at best but a shabby affair. I would not have acknowledged it on any account, but I was dreadfully tired and sleepy, and could hardly conceal these humiliating frailties, while the landlord and a drowsy waiter or two bustled about to get us some "tea;" which meal, arranged upon a remote end of a dreary, long table, in a dingy, long room, was utterly unpalatable, and I was but too grateful to Mr.

Rutledge for excusing me when a chambermaid appeared to say my room was ready, and conduct me to it.

It seemed direfully early next morning when the same functionary appeared to awake me, with the intelligence that breakfast would shortly be on the table, and the gentleman had sent her to call me, and to see if there was any way in which she could help me. "The gentleman" had evidently backed his suggestion with some specimens of the United States currency, for she was overwhelmingly attentive, and helped me to dress in "no time." Breakfast, arranged again as a little colony, at the end of the long table, was considerably more inviting than last night's meal, Thomas having had orders to beat up the town for spring chickens and fresh b.u.t.ter, and, being a veteran in the recruiting service, had of course succeeded. Mr. Rutledge looked a little anxiously at me, and said I was wretchedly pale, and he did not know about going on. I laughed at the idea, and we were soon _en route_ again, driving briskly along in the eye of a strong wind, and with the bluest of skies overhead.

Arrived at C----, we had an hour to spare, before the arrival of the boat, which I spent in the parlor of the very pretending steamboat hotel, in writing a few lines of adieu and apology to Mrs. Arnold, accounting, as satisfactorily as I could, for my unceremonious and abrupt departure, and desiring a renewal of my acknowledgments to Mr.

Shenstone. Of this, Mr. Rutledge approved, and wrote a few lines to Mr.

Shenstone to accompany it. Then came the parting from Tigre, and the sending back of the carriage, which seemed like severing the last tie to Rutledge. Tigre was much affected, poor beast, and looked wistfully back, out of the carriage window, as far as we could see.

A bell rings, a rush occurs, Thomas devotes himself to the baggage, Mr.

Rutledge gives his arm to me, we thread the crowded wharf, the blue Hudson dances in the sunlight, the fine steamer holds her breath, and tries to lie still while we get on board.

"O Tiber! Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day."

I am luxuriously established in the saloon, with every imaginable wish attended to, and easy-chairs, books, papers, and cushions enough to satisfy five invalids, but they do not satisfy me. I am bored with the heat, and the whimpering of the pale children, whom a lean, sallow-looking mother feeds unremittingly with "bolivars" and "taffy;" I am tired with the swinging of those lamps overhead, and the everlasting rocking of a stout lady in a red plush rocking-chair, and with looking at the gaudy colors in the carpet, and I rush out for a brisk walk on the deck with Mr. Rutledge. What a day it is! How impossible to be otherwise than happy and hopeful; how inevitably the dark phantoms of doubt and dread take themselves off in the light of such a sun as this, and in the sight of such a scene! The waves dance bright and gay in the sunshine; the mountains rise, on either hand, into the blue and cloudless sky; in a word, the loveliest river in all this lovely river-braided New World lays before me, the heart of seventeen beats in my bosom, the glow of health and exercise tingles in my veins; what wonder that I forget the tears of yesterday, the separation, the homesickness, the loneliness that I so dreaded.

Neither can my companion altogether resist the influences of the hour.

If the sharp air and the quick walk have, as he says, made the tardy roses bloom again on my cheeks, they have also brought a glow to his face, and a sparkle to his eye, and untamed wit and sarcasm to his lips.

He quizzes our fellow voyagers, tells me odd stories of former travel, droll sketches of western journeyings, and California "experiences."

Then the laugh dies, as some winding of the river brings suddenly before us a picture too grand to be looked at with trifling words and laughter on our lips. And Mr. Rutledge has the "right thing" to say then, in his rich manly voice, and the right words to embody the voiceless thoughts that crowd to my own lips--words that do not jar or desecrate, but make the beauty tangible and the grandeur more enn.o.bling.

By and by, most of our fellow travellers give up to the cold and go below; and at last we are left with only a persevering artist, who holds his hat on with one hand, and sketches with the other, and a couple of ladies, whose ruddy cheeks, thick shoes, grey dresses, plaid shawls, "boas" and big bonnets, proclaim indisputably to be H.B.M.'s loyal and unalienated subjects. It has always been a question with me, as yet unanswered, whether by any act of Parliament these "proud islanders,"

out on their travels, are prohibited from appearing in anything but the invariable grey dress, plaid shawl, boa, and big bonnet, in which they invariably do appear. After a while, even they go down, and a solitary cadaverous-looking man, in the dress of a Romish priest, is our only companion. He paces up and down one corner of the deck, never raising his heavy eyes, but reading prayers diligently out of a little book, his thin lips moving rapidly. It is no doubt a good and pious thing to read prayers out of a little book; but it seems to me, that with that grand and glorious lesson spread upon the mountains there before us, it would be a very pardonable thing to look up at it, and to give G.o.d thanks.

It is rather a bore to go down to dinner, and after that, to be sentenced to a term of imprisonment in the saloon, because, forsooth, it is too cold outside, and I must rest. But late in the afternoon, I plead that the wind has fallen, that there is no possible chance of my taking cold, and I must see the sun set among the Highlands, and I gain reluctant permission; and now for another walk!

The sunset is beyond my hopes; the twilight steals down after it, soft and dusky, and broods about the rocky Palisades, and dulls to dimness the dancing waves, and settles, grey and thick, around the pretty villas and white cottages that dot the banks, and deepens slowly, till all is one sombre hue in earth and sky, and one fair star comes out to establish the reign of night.

We are late this evening in arriving at New York; we should have been there some time ago; in less than half an hour we shall be at the wharf, Mr. Rutledge says. All my gaiety and spirits have fled; I wonder that I could have forgotten. Still we pace the deck; there is no talk of cold or fatigue now; indeed, not much talk of any kind.

"We are in sight of your new home now," says my companion, pointing

"Where the lamps quiver So far in the river."

And I cannot reply, to save my life. A mist of tears dim the glare of those lights, at first sight. We near the wharf; the bell rings; the busy hum of the city reaches our ears less and less faintly; the dim figures that crowd the wharf grow more distinct.