23. CHAPTER XXIII.
I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, oh nature! is there nought to prize
Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life?
And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?
Campbell.
We returned by a different and less lonely route, the
Tinkervillians having very civilly directed us to one on
which we should not at any point be far distant from a
dwelling. The single Indian we had encountered in
the morning had been quite sufficient to spoil Mrs.
Rivers' ride; and we hurried on at the best pace of our
sober steeds.
The country through which we were passing was so
really lovely that even my timid little friend forgot her
fears at times and exclaimed like a very enthusiast.
At least two small lakes lay near our way; and these,
of winding outline, and most dazzling brightness,
seemed, as we espied them now and then through the
arched vistas of the deep woods, multiplied to a dozen
or more. We saw grape-vines which had so embraced
large trees that the long waving pennons flared over
their very tops; while the lower branches of the sturdy
oaks were one undistinguishable mass of light green
foliage, without an inch of bark to be seen. The roadside
was piled like an exaggerated velvet with exquisitely
beautiful ferns of almost every variety; and
some open spots gleamed scarlet with those wild strawberries
so abundant with us, and which might challenge
the world for flavour.
Birds of every variety of song and hue, were not
wanting, nor the lively squirrel, that most joyous of
nature's pensioners; and it cost us some little care to
keep D'Orsay in his post of honour as sole escort through
these lonely passes. But alack! “'t was ever thus!”
We had scarcely sauntered two miles when a scattered
drop or two foretold that we were probably to try the
melting mood. We had not noticed a cloud, but thus
warned we saw portentous gatherings of these bugbears
of life.
Now if our poneys would only have gone a little
faster! But they would not, so we were wet to the
skin—travelling jets d' eau—looking doubtless very
much like the western settler taking his stirrup-cup
in one of Mrs. Trollope's true pictures.
When we could be no further soaked we reached a
farm-house—not a Michigan farm-house, but a great,
noble, yankee “palace of pine boards,” looking like a
cantle of Massachusetts or Western New-York dropped
par hazard, in these remote wilds. To me who had
for a long while seen nothing of dwelling kind larger
than a good sized chicken-coop, the scene was quite
one of Eastern enchantment. A large barn with shed
and stables and poultry-yard and all! Fields of grain,
well fenced and stumpless, surrounded this happy
dwelling; and a most inviting door-yard, filled to profusion
with shrubs and flowers, seemed to invite our
entrance.
“A honey-suckle! absolutely a honey-suckle on the
porch!” Mrs. Rivers was almost too forlorn to sympathize
with me: but then she had not been quite so
long from home. I have been troubled with a sort of
home calenture at times since we removed westward.
As we were about to dismount, the sun shone out
most provokingly: and I was afraid there would be
scarce the shadow of an excuse for a visit to the interesting
inmates, for such I had decided they must be,
of this delicious home-like spot; but, as we wavered, a
young man as wet as ourselves, came up the road, and,
opening the gate at once, invited us to enter and dry
our dripping garments.
We stayed not for urging, but turned our graceless
steeds into the shady lane, and dismounting, not at the
front entrance, but, a la Michigan, at the kitchen door,
we were received with much grave but cordial politeness
by the comely mistress of the mansion, who was
sharing with her pretty daughter the after-dinner cares
of the day. Our upper garments were spread to dry,
and when we were equipped, with urgent hospitality,
in others belonging to our hostesses, we were ushered
into the parlor or “keeping room.”
Here, writing at an old-fashioned secretary, sat the
master of the house, a hearty, cheerful-looking, middle-aged
man; evidently a person of less refinement than
his wife, but still of a most prepossessing exterior. He
fell no whit behind in doing the honours, and we soon
found ourselves quite at ease. We recounted the adventures
of our tiny journey, and laughed at our unlucky
over-running of the game.
“Ah! Tinkerville! yes, I think it will be some time
yet before those dreams will come to pass. I have
told Mr. Jephson there was nothing there to make a
village out of.”
“You are acquainted then with the present proprietors?”
“With one of them I have been acquainted since we
were boys; and he has been a speculator all that time,
and is now at least as poor as ever. He has been very
urgent with me to sell out here and locate in his village,
as he calls it; but we knew rather too much of him at
home for that,” and he glanced at his fair spouse with
some archness. I could scarcely believe that any man
could have been impudent enough to propose such an
exchange, but nothing is incredible in Michigan.
Mrs. Beckworth was now engaged in getting tea, in
spite of our hollow-hearted declarations that we did
not wish it. With us, be it known to new comers,
whatever be the hour of the day, a cup of tea with
trimmings, is always in season; and is considered as
the orthodox mode of welcoming any guest, from the
clergyman to “the maid that does the meanest chores.”
We were soon seated at a delicately-furnished table.
The countenance of the good lady had something of
peculiar interest for me. It was mild, intelligent, and
very pleasing. No envious silver streaked the rich
brown locks which were folded with no little elegance
above the fair brow. A slight depression of the outer
extremity of the eye-lid, and of the delicately-pencilled
arch above it, seemed to tell of sorrow and meek endurance.
I was sure that like so many western settlers,
the fair and pensive matron had a story; and
when I had once arrived at this conclusion, I determined
to make a brave push to ascertain the truth of
my conjecture.
I began, while Mrs. Beckworth was absent from the
parlour, by telling every thing I could think of; this
being the established mode of getting knowledge in this
country. Mr. Beckworth did not bite.
“Is this young lady your daughter, Mr. Beckworth?”
“A daughter of my wife's—Mary Jane Harrington?”
“Oh! ah! a former marriage; and the fine young
man who brought us into such good quarters is a brother
of Miss Harrington's I am sure.”
“A half brother—Charles Boon.”
“Mrs. Beckworth thrice married! impossible!” was
my not very civil but quite natural exclamation.
Our host smiled quietly, a smile which enticed me
still further. He was, fortunately for my reputation
for civility, too kindly polite not to consent to gratify
my curiosity, which I told him sincerely had been
awakened by the charming countenance of his wife,
who was evidently the object of his highest admiration.
As we rode through the freshened woods with Mr.
Beckworth, who had, with ready politeness, offered
to see us safely a part of the way, he gave us the particulars
of his early history; and to establish my claim
to the character of a physiognomist, I shall here recount
what he told me; and, as I cannot recollect his
words, I must give this romance of rustic life in my
own, taking a new chapter for it.
