Monsieur Deville, having consulted Dr. Goforth, on vaccination,
milk-sickness and miasma, took the mail-packet for Gallipolis.
Arlington, after transacting the business which brought him to
Cincinnati, started for his distant Virginia home, not by water nor by
the direct route through Kentucky to the Old Wilderness Road, but
across southern Ohio, over the highway which led to Marietta. The
young man told landlord Yeatman that his object in choosing this
roundabout course was to see the country; and he told the truth, but
not the whole truth. Arlington cared not so much about going to
Marietta as about getting there. He had not escaped the consequences
of his recent perilous exposure to the rays of bewitching eyes. As he
rode along through the woods he saw flocks of paroquets fluttering
their emerald wings and making love as they flew. The red birds were
singing bridal songs in the sugar-trees, and the shy hermit thrush
betrayed his domestic secrets by husbandly notes piped from the
spice-brush thicket. The wild flowers, too, anemone, puccoon and
addertongue, nodding in the light breeze, seemed conscious of the joy
of life in spring.
The pilgrimage to the Muskingum was one long meditation on Evaleen
Hale. Arlington was powerless to break the rosy mesh which entangled
him. The bright image of the golden-haired New England girl waylaid
him again and again. He reached Marietta on a fine, bright morning,
and having consigned his horse to the care of the ostler of the
Travellers' Rest, he presently started out in search of the
dwelling-place of Evaleen, trusting, like Shelley's Indian lover, to
the Spirit in his feet.
It did not take long to make the rounds of the prim, Puritan village,
and though he caught sight of more than one pretty maid peeping with
coy curiosity from cottage window or garden plot, he saw no face
comparable with that which he had cherished in memory since seeing the
original in Blennerhassett's parlor. A lame soldier of the
Revolutionary War pointed out to him the squares named Campus Martius
and Capitolium, and directed him to follow the Sacra Via, through a
covert way, to the wonderful ancient earthworks hard by--vast
enclosures, terraces and tumuli, resembling natural hills, but, in
fact, the piled-up monuments of the Mound Builders. The greatest and
most impressive of these mysterious remains, a huge mound in the form
of a sugar-loaf, appealed so strongly to Arlington's imagination,
that, contemplating it, he for a time forgot everything else, losing
himself in admiration and conjecture. Intending a closer inspection of
the steep, artificial hill, he crossed a dry _fosse_ which ran around
it in a perfect circle, and was clambering up the mound when a voice
from above startled him.
"Come up, come right up! There's a good path starts t'other side of
that wild gooseberry bush."
Looking aloft, Arlington beheld, seated on the summit of the mound,
the grotesque figure of Plutarch Byle.
"It blows a body, don't it?" said Byle, recognizing the Southerner
with a familiar nod. "Give us your hand; I'll haul you safe to the
peak of Aryrat. I'm right glad to see you, and I'm not sorry he isn't
along with you. Have you got rid of him for good?"
"Do you mean Colonel Burr?"
"Exactly; he's a sort of burr I hope to God will never stick to me or
to any friend of mine. I like you, Burlington, and I congratulate you,
as the saying is, that you pulled him off. Folks oughtn't to be too
familiar with strangers, ought they? You or I might be taken in by
appearances. I confess I was deceived in--I won't say that man, but
that hoop-snake. He was as fine looking a man as I am. But let's not
mention him. Which way do you hail from now? When did you strike
Marietta?"
"To-day, Mr. Byle."
"Call me Plutarch. I don't like European forms. How long do you
calculate to stay, Burlingham?"
"Not long. I am on my return to Virginia, and stop in Marietta to see
these earthworks. You are acquainted here. Do you know--do you know
of a family by the name of Hale?"
"Well, yes; that is, I know old Squire George Hale by sight, and I met
his daughter once in a sort of social way like, at Mrs.
Blennerhassett's. The Hales is a fine family, regular high posts with
a silk tester; they're upper-crust Boston quality. George hasn't lived
here long, only about a year, and I've been away up on Yok River, at
brother Virgil's, most of the time for the last five year. The Hales
are blue blood, and no mistake. The young woman is a seek-no-farther.
She is about to marry a feller from Massachusetts, who is here now
a-sparking like fox-fire. I don't know the particulars, but I put this
and that together, and I'm satisfied it's a match, and though I'm
always danged sorry for any girl who gets married, I reckon this
feller is about as decent as any of us. His names is Danvers--Captain
Danvers; a right peert young chap, in the reg'lar army. I saw them
yesterday, Evaleen and him--her name's Evaleen--walking,
spooney-like, down by Muskingum, and I says to myself, 'By the holy
artichokes, I'd like to be in the captain's military boots.'"
"Are you sure they are engaged?" queried Arlington.
"Yes, sure as coffin-nails; why? Do _you_ know the Spring Beauty?"
"I have met her."
"I'll bet you took a fancy to her the minute you sot eyes on her. So
did I; but I nipped it in the bud. You look as if you might be hugely
in love, Burlington. I know adzactly how you feel. Everything is
prodigious out here in the West--big trees, big fish, big mammoth
bones, and big hearts. I'll swan! the kind of love that you are liable
to in these tremendous woods is like the rest of the works of Nature,
immense. Howsomever, a man can stand a terrible sight of love and get
over it. I know what I'm talking about. Love's a queer complaint! By
ginger, I realize from experience how it takes hold of the system. You
mightn't guess it, but I pulled through the toughest case of
woman-stroke that ever a young feller was took with.
'Cheeks of my youth,
Bathed in tears have you been.'
It's facts I'm stating. Still, a good constitution does mend fast when
the flightiness and distress in the imagination leaves him and he
cools down to his right mind. And there's medicine for every ailment,
balm in Gilead, by gum, even for love sickness. The seed-pods of the
cucumber tree soaked in raw whiskey makes a first-rate bitters for all
such like fevers. I'm sorry for you, but--hold up, what did I tell
you? Look yonder! Do you see that couple walking this way from Campus
Martius? That's them!"
Looking in the direction indicated by Plutarch's long forefinger,
Arlington saw a man and a woman, side by side, slowly approaching the
mound, so absorbed in each other's companionship that they seemed
oblivious to the landscape and the sky. Neither glanced upward, though
they came so near the base of the hill that the envious spy on the
summit, peering down, identified the person and the voice of the lady
as belonging unmistakably to Miss Hale. The pair paused under a
dog-wood from which Captain Danvers plucked a flowery bough; then they
resumed their stroll, walking toward the village, arm in arm.
"Shall I holler to them?" asked Byle with the friendliest intentions.
"By no means!" said Arlington hastily. "I have not the slightest
interest in either of them. What have you here in your basket--botanical
specimens?"
The inquiry set Plutarch's tongue running on his favorite theme. "I'm
a sort of self-made doctor, Mr. ---- won't you please write your name
out just as you spell it yourself, and let me have it? I ain't sure of
the accent. I've been digging roots and so on, for brother
Blennerhassett. He's an odd fish--he fancies he knows yarbs. Well,
now, he _does_; that is, he can learn and is learning faster than you
would believe a near-sighted United Irishman could learn anything
outside of books. He knows ginseng from pleuresy-root, anyhow. This
plant--I'm taking the whole thing, root and stem, to show him how it
grows--is the genuine Indian physic; I got it right by a big rotten
log in Putnam's woods. What do you say to taking a tour to
Blennerhassett's with me in my piroque? I've got as snug a piroque as
ever oversot."
There was no reason why Arlington should not seize this offered
opportunity of once more visiting the island, and pay his respects to
the proprietor, whom he had some curiosity to meet. Besides, might he
not chance to learn the true condition of affairs regarding Evaleen
Hale and the objectionable captain?
Rocking on lazy eddies of a sheltered cove lay the piroque. It was a
dugout or canoe, made by hollowing with axe and adz a section of a
cucumber tree. One-fourth of its length was covered with canvas
stretched on hoops, forming a canopy to shed rain and to screen the
passenger from the sun's rays. The cosy shelter was made use of by
Plutarch as a receptacle for "specimens" of all varieties, animal,
vegetable and mineral. The boat was propelled by a paddle, and, as the
owner had warned Arlington, was liable to be toppled over by any
heedless movement of its occupants. In this craft, the distance from
Marietta to the island was measured without accident. Landed on the
gravelly beach, Plutarch bent his steps toward the dazzling white
house, Arlington at his side. Peter Taylor, puttering in the front
yard, greeted the visitors in his saturnine style.
"Which way is the Highcockolorum?" inquired Plutarch, thrusting out
his hand.
The gardener was perplexed.
"I mean your boss. Ah, there he is, with a gun! What's the fraction
now? When I first came to this place his little boy offered to stick a
tin sword through me, and I wonder now if pap means to shoot me!"
"'E couldn't 'it you at ten paces," grumbled the Englishman,
manifesting grim enjoyment. Byle winked in response. Blennerhassett,
leading Dominick by the hand, came to meet them, and Arlington was
courteously received.
"I regret my absence at the time you did us the honor to call. I have
since had a delightful letter from Colonel Burr, who promises to favor
us again. Mrs. Blennerhassett told me every particular of your brief
sojourn here. She was charmed with her guests. I am sorry she happens
to be from home. She has gone to spend the day with friends in
Marietta."
"That's where she was, by gum, the first time I called here," broke in
Byle, whose unconscious temerity Blennerhassett, not being able to
rebuke, had concluded to tolerate. "I have fetched you a lot more
plants and roots, and the spines of that big cat-fish I told you
about. Here's another curiosity--the wing of a queer bird that I
don't know--maybe you will--I shot the fowl flying. I see _you_ own
a rifle!"
"Yes," answered the recluse, placing the piece in Plutarch's hands.
"You are familiar with American guns. What is your opinion of this
one? It was recommended to me as an excellent article, and I bought it
at an enormous price, so my neighbors tell me. But from my indifferent
success in bringing down game with it, I am forced to the conclusion
that the barrel must be defective. Peter thinks not, but he is more of
an adept in horticulture than in shooting."
The gardener was miffed by this left-handed compliment, but he did not
venture to resent the impeachment. Plutarch handled the gun with the
confident facility of an expert, poised it to ascertain the weight,
noticed the calibre and the maker's name, admired the beauty of the
stock, and tested the action of the trigger, lightly lifting the maple
breech to his shoulder. The spectators marvelled at the delicate touch
of his seemingly coarse fingers.
"This is a good rifle," said he. "Do you see that red head on the top
of that tree t'other side of the house?" No one did perceive the bird
which the hunter professed to discover on the top of a tall sycamore
distinctly visible at a distance of many rods beyond the roof. Byle
drew up the rifle and fired.
"Run, bub, and pick him up," said Plutarch, dropping the butt of the
rifle and resting it carelessly on the toe of his shoe. Dominick
hesitated, but the black man, Scipio, who had drawn near to witness
the shooting, trudged away to the foot of the tree, where he found a
dead woodpecker lying on the ground. He picked up the bird, still warm
and bleeding, and brought it to Blennerhassett, who expressed
enthusiastic admiration for the marksman's skill. Plutarch received
the praise without showing the pleased vanity he inwardly felt, and
having reloaded the gun with neat celerity, he passed it to the owner,
saying in his unceremonious way, "Now, boss, it's your turn."
Blennerhassett at first declined to make an exhibition of his skill,
but on persuasion consented to fire at a mark under the direction of
his faithful servant, Peter Taylor, who was accustomed to attend him
on hunting excursions. Mr. Byle, with accommodating alacrity, offered
his hat as a suitable target, having stuck a maple leaf on the centre
of the crown to answer as the bull's eye. The party shifted ground to
the rear premises, and the hat was fixed to the side of the barn.
Blennerhassett took his place directly in front of the mark, at a
distance from it of twenty steps deliberately paced off by Plutarch.
When their chief cocked the rifle there was a general commotion among
the servants, black and white, for by this time the whole retinue of
the establishment, including ostler, footman, butler, field hands and
housemaids, had collected to see the sport. The principal actor, being
self-absorbed as well as near-sighted, was scarcely aware of the
tittering assemblage. Abstracted from every other thought, he fixed
his attention on the great business in hand, not without misgiving and
nervous agitation. When he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, and,
trembling with excitement, pointed it in the manner he conceived to be
proper, Peter Taylor, stationed at his master's back as prompter and
artillerist, gave directions: "Now, sir, cool and steady! 'Old her
level! Not so 'igh, Mr. Blennerhassett. There! So! 'Old on! 'Old on! A
leetle more up! Ready! Fire!"
In agitation, the gentleman drew the trigger, and the next instant a
pane of window-glass, fully six feet from the outmost rim of Mr.
Byle's straw hat, was shivered to pieces, and the fragments were heard
to tinkle as they fell within the barn. The chagrin of the mortified
rifleman was cunningly abated by Peter's declaring that he himself was
at fault in confining his master's attention to vertical rather than
to horizontal considerations; but while he thus explained away the
failure, he winked at the other servants and whispered aside to
Plutarch that, though horticulture was his profession, he was a better
shot than his distinguished employer.
"That's claiming a good deal, isn't it?" replied Byle, following with
his eye the humiliated subject of their comment, who, conscious that
he had made himself ridiculous, withdrew from the scene and tried to
recover lost dignity by retiring with his guest to the privacy of his
library. There, rallying his spirits, he dilated upon law, science and
_belles-lettres_, oblivious of the fact that his commonplace remarks
were tedious to a lively mind. He was opinionated, though not
egotistical; revered authority, took himself seriously, and was a hero
worshipper lacking humor and imagination. Pedantically conscious of
imparting his stored wisdom to the attentive listener, whom he desired
to entertain, he glowed with ingenuous enthusiasm while he commented,
in mildly magisterial fashion, on books and authors. He read aloud
extracts from "Shaftsbury's Characteristics," nodding approval of the
dullest sentences. Then he opened a large new folio, illustrated with
allegorical plates and profusely annotated.
"This is my latest literary treasure, Erasmus Darwin's wonderful poem,
'The Temple of Nature,' recently published, and superior, I think, to
the 'Botanic Garden.' Let me read from the first canto, on the
Production of Life."
Arlington in "wise passivity" submitted to the infliction, and with
feigned pleasure followed the torturer's voice, delivering page after
page of solemn science in polished heroic couplets. At length, in a
lull between the lines on Imitation and those on Appetency, the young
man mustered courage to broach the subject nearest his heart, by
asking the irrelevant question, "You are acquainted, I dare say, with
the prominent families of Marietta; do you happen to know a gentleman
by the name of Hale? George Hale?"
Blennerhassett, keeping one eye on the Temple of Nature, answered
mechanically:
"Yes; George Hale is one of our best citizens. He is held in high
esteem, a man of some wealth and of great probity, but not college
bred. I am sure, Mr. Arlington, you will discern high poetical
qualities in this passage from the second canto, entitled Reproduction
of Life. Shall I read it aloud?"
"By all means, sir. I should be delighted to hear you read the entire
volume, but I regret that I have engagements up the river."
"I will detain you only a moment, Mr. Arlington. Perhaps you would
like to carry the book with you to read on your way back. This is the
passage I referred to:
'Now, young Desires, on purple pinions borne,
Mount the warm gale of Manhood's rising morn;
With softer fires through Virgin bosoms dart,
Flush the pale cheek, and goad the tender heart!'
Those are well-constructed verses, my dear sir--equal to Dryden. 'On
purple pinions borne,' sounds well. The alliteration is pleasing. Note
the effect, also, in the phrase 'Manhood's morn,' and the last line is
poetical,
'Flush the pale cheek, and goad the tender heart.'