"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 amusement 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 assiduously 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 passed. 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 passengers 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 brimming 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.