9. IX.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY PASSES TO THE
MOUNTAINS.
The current of the narrative bears
us now from Williamsburg toward the
mountains.
It was there that the singular drama
we essay to unfold before the reader
was to find its stage, or at least to play
its chief scenes; and, by accompanying
him who is the main personage, we shall
witness what occurred.
The note for Lord Ruthven had been
delivered at the door of the Raleigh by
Edmund Innis, as he passed, on horseback,
along Gloucester Street, directing
his course toward the Blue Ridge. Beside
him rode a young gentleman, with
pale-blue eyes, chestnut curls, and laughing
lips.
Philip, or Phil Cary, as everybody
called him, was about the age of Innis,
that is to say, twenty-two or three,
graceful, vigorous, and active in every
movement, clad in a velvet hunting-suit,
with innumerable pockets; and from his
cocked hat floated a handsome feather.
It would be impossible to imagine any
thing more joyous, gallant, and redolent
of youth, than his smile. Life brimmed
for him, with gayety, enjoyment, and the
charming zest which accompanies the
first years of manhood—very plainly, the
inexorable ennui which lies at the
foundation of human life, as says Bossuet,
had never touched him with its
chilling finger. Jest, laughter, merriment,
overflowed in him; you would have
said that this young human being was
glad that he was alive.
Beside Innis, somewhat sad and
thoughtful, Phil Cary resembled a sunbeam
plunging through foliage into some
shadowy nook; he sang, laughed, rallied
his companion, looking on all sides with
his roving glance, and turning all he saw
into comedy.
“Come, old fellow!” he exclaimed,
“what's the matter? Laugh, I say!”
“At what, Phil?” said Innis, smiling.
“At every thing, or nothing. What's
the use of sighing?”
“I am not sighing.”
“Well, you are thinking — that's
equally bad.”
“Don't you ever think?”
“Never! I sing.”
And Phil Cary burst forth into a
song which made the forest, through
which they were passing, echo again.
“Very good!” he said when he had
finished his song; “I know what you are
thinking of.”
“What?”
“I mean what person.”
“Tell me.”
“Of Honoria.”
“Pshaw!” said Innis, coloring;
“why should I waste my time in—in—
what you mean? And yet, Phil — I
might retort and say that you were
thinking of—her elder sister?”
“Wrong! I never indulge in that
folly.”
“Then my fair cousin Lou and yourself
have quarrelled.”
“Not in the least. All the quarrelling
is done by the old lady—my venerable
mamma in the coach yonder.”
“Look; she is calling you.”
In fact, there was seen in front a
large family chariot, drawn by four
horses; and from the window waved a
white handkerchief. Mr. Phil Cary
obeyed this summons, and, putting spur
to his horse, was soon beside the coach,
which was occupied by an elderly lady
in black silk.
“Philip, my dear,” said the elderly
lady, drawing down a large pair of
glasses until they rested upon her nose,
and gazing over them.
“Well, mamma.”
“Did you write in my name to Mrs.
Byrd to say that we should stop at
Westover?”
“Yes, my respected mamma.”
“In time?”
“Full time; you see there are some
young ladies there on a visit; and as I
am in pursuit of a wife—”
“Nonsense, Philip! why will you
run on in that absurd manner?”
“Absurd, my dear madam? I think
'tis the most intelligent thing I could
do.”
The scapegrace turned his head as he
spoke and winked at Innis, who had
ridden up.
“Why think of marriage for a dozen
years to come?”
“Behold,” cried Mr. Phil Cary, “the
most unreasonable of her sex! May I
request to be informed of my age, my
dear madam?”
“You are twenty-three in November.”
“And the age of my papa when he
married my mamma?”
“There, there, Philip — let us not
speak so lightly—I was wrong perhaps,
but you are my only stay now; you must
remember that, my dear.”
The young man became for a moment
serious, and said:
“My dear mother, there is no danger
of my leaving you. A wife!—what do
I want with a wife? Rest easy on that
score.”
After which assurance, he rode on
with Innis, in advance of the coach,
which, heavily laden with huge trunks
went creaking on its way.
I know nothing more delightful than
a horseback journey through the variegated
forest, in the brilliant, breezy
autumn, when youth and health give a
zest to existence, and the wind in the
foliage whispers its mysterious secrets.
Then the fresh breeze laughs—in riper
age it sighs. To be young is the secret!
—to ride then through the splendid,
many-colored forest, the cream of earthly
enjoyment.
I should like to pause at “Westover,”
where the travellers were received with
warm hospitality. But these old interiors
interest few persons to - day.
“Westover,” the home once of Colonel
William Byrd, the haunt of starry-eyed
maidens, passes, as on a moving canvas,
and our party continue their way. They
halted again at “Belvidere,” on the site
of the present city of Richmond, where
they were lulled to sleep by the sweet
murmur of the falls in the river—then
they stopped at “Dungeonness”—the
home of Mr. Randolph in Goochland—
then a long day's journey brought them
in sight of “Elmwood,” the mansion of
Mrs. Cary.
On the horizon were seen “Blenheim,”
“Carysbrook,” and other ancient
mansions; and, sparkling like a fallen
star, with a last beam of the sun which
fell upon its windows, “Rivanna” crowning
its lofty hill and dominating the
whole region.
This enchanting land of field and
forest, through which ran sparkling like
threads of silver the Rivanna and its
affluents, was bounded in the west by
the deep-blue mountain, extending from
north to south like a long surge of the
ocean. Above it spread the purple flush
of sunset; against this exquisite background
every azure crest stood out in
clear relief; and a flock of birds moving
on slow wings amid the gray clouds,
sunk down toward the fairy-land of sunset.
Innis gazed from the portico of “Elmwood”
at this beautiful scene—slowly
turned his eyes toward the lofty hill
crowned by “Rivanna” — and murmured
with a happy smile:
“I shall see her soon!”
