University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
AT THE MOUNTAIN MIRROR.

Thursday dawned clear and bright, — warmer than
any day of the month had been before, — a perfect
time. Elizabeth looked out of her window in a trance

of delight and expectation. The lonely, lovely hills
had never seemed so fair, so full of promise. The
sky was a deep, lustrous azure, over which now and
then some bit of white, fleecy cloud drifted. Elizabeth
repeated snatches of verse to herself as she dressed.
She could not sing, but she recited in a chanting tone,
which was in itself full of musical suggestion.

She put on a pure white dress. Somehow she felt as
pure and fresh herself as the new day out of doors, —
the new day, washed with God's dews, and freshened
by His winds. She was as simply glad and expectant
as a child; so she suited her attire to her mood. She
brushed her soft hair away from her forehead, and
coiled it into a net, through whose slender meshes all
its beauty was visible. A branch of coral fastened the
lace around her throat, and was her only ornament.
She might have sat for a picture of Undine, but for the
soul, already awakened, which looked out of her
luminous eyes.

She went downstairs, and found the rest all ready
for it was nearly nine o'clock, — Rob and Dick Fordyce
in their cool, gray suits; Kate in violet, Bell in pink,
and Emmie, the youngest one, in sea-green; for the
three graces were prejudiced against dressing alike,
and they had been bright enough to discover that
azure is not of necessity the one idea of blondes.

They ate their late breakfast in a desultory way;
one and another jumping up at intervals, to put some
forgotten or neglected thing into the lunch-baskets.

About half-past nine they finally got themselves off

in a large, comfortable wagon drawn by two horses, the
three seats of which held them all without inconvenience.
As the residences of the various guests were
scattered in different directions, no rendezvous was
attempted until they should reach the picnic ground.
I will not bore you with any attempt to make you see
the Mountain Mirror with my eyes. You may be fortunate
enough to go some day to a picnic in Lenox,
and behold with your own this deep, still tarn, which
reflects for ever the lofty peak that rises directly from
its western shore, the lesser hills at the east, and the
solemn, watching, cloud-swept sky high over all.

The Fordyce May picnic was held, year after year,
on this enchanted spot; and to climb the Peak, and
look from its summit over the wide-spread landscape,
was the fatigue which always earned them the right to
their repast. So they arranged at once, upon arriving,
baskets and hampers in a cool, shady place, and then
made ready for their mountain scramble. Presently
the rest of the company began to appear. Elizabeth
looked eagerly at the Gilman carriage, but found it
quite empty of interest for her, containing only Hannah
and Selina Gilman and their sandy-haired brother.
Half a dozen other well-laden wagons followed; and,
last of all, a light buggy, with a vicious-looking black
horse, driven by the only stranger of the party.

Elizabeth Fordyce sat very still in her place under
the trees, while her cousins went forward to welcome
Mr. Le Roy. She saw a tall, elegant-looking man,
dressed in speckless white linen, — a man with the unmistakable

grand air she had associated with him in
her fancy. This hero, whose very name, before English
spelling corrupted it, was Le Roi, the king.

“A Saul, than his brethren higher and fairer,” she
said softly to herself; and just then her cousin Kate
brought him up to her.

“Another Miss Fordyce,” Kate said gayly; “my
Cousin Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth looked up, and met the gaze of a pair of
cool, speculative, yet reticent blue eyes, which told no
secrets and held no smile, though the lips below were
parted and revealed glittering rows of teeth. He was
very handsome,—that was her first thought; very satirical
also, was her second. He would be intolerant of sentimentality
or weakness, some instinct told her. Well,
she had one gift, that of being able to keep silence;
and she need not expose any vulnerable points to his
shafts. She rose with an air as lofty as his own, and
gave him her hand. That momentary contact sent a
curious thrill through her nerves, — not repulsion,
but as certainly not attraction, — prophecy, perhaps.
She did not try to analyze it as she sat down again,
and he passed on with his merry guide, to be made
acquainted with the rest of the party.

“See how he will let Kate bore him,” thought Elizabeth
to herself, “just because she is handsome. Good
and sweet as she is, she could have no comprehension
of such a man or such a career. How is it that,
even with the best men, beauty answers for every
thing?”

She forgot that her own face had not seemed unlovely
when she looked at it in the glass that morning.
She came nearer to envying her cousin's yellow locks,
and pink and white prettiness, and eyes of china blue,
than she had ever come before to a feeling so mean. She
really wanted this Elliott Le Roy to be interested in
her. Not that she was thinking of him as possible
lover or husband, — Elizabeth was too proud to have
such thoughts a spontaneous growth in her mind, —
but she wanted to attract him enough to make him
talk with her, and give her a taste of that wine of life
which he had quaffed so long that surely its tang must
linger upon his lips. If her eyes were not blue, or her
hair yellow, she had at least the ability to appreciate
him; but probably he would not care to find that out.
Just as she was becoming disgusted with herself for this
phase of envious feeling, he came back to her, quite
alone this time.

“They are getting ready to climb the Peak,” he said,
carelessly. “Do you go, — or shall we stay behind in
the shade, and let the rest look at the view for us?”

That “we” stirred Elizabeth's pulses a little. He
had elected himself her cavalier, after all. But her
calm, pale face betrayed no eagerness or excitement.

“I must go,” she said, rising. “They would not give
me my dinner, else.”

“And you expect to be hungry by and by?”

He eyed her critically as he spoke, beginning to
admire her composure and self-possession, — qualities
which he had expected to put to flight at once in

any country girl whom he might honor with his
attention.

“Most unromantically hungry,” she answered, smiling,
“I always am on May-day.”

Le Roy lifted his brows.

“So this is May-day? I really thought that had
been a month ago, when I saw the streets full of young
Hibernians, with paper wreaths on their bare heads.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied quietly. “That was May-day
in New York. It takes most fashions a month to
travel to Lenox. It is too cold here for flowers to
bloom on the first of May, and we never call it May-day
until there are blossoms enough to crown our
queen. We always make a wreath of violets for Kate,
and they are less blue than her eyes.”

“Queen Katherine and Queen Bess, — I find myself
among the royal family.”

She did not answer. She fancied that she detected
a shade of satire in his tone, and it stung her sensitive
pride. By this time the rest of the party had all
started. The three graces had given up Mr. Le Roy
to Queen Bess very willingly. They were a little
afraid of him, and found themselves more at ease with
their village cavaliers. He had cut an alpenstock, as
he called it, for Elizabeth, and another for himself,
while they had been talking; and now they started for
the climb, just enough behind the others to be out of
ear-shot.

For a while they were both silent. Elizabeth carried
little of the small coin of society, and she was resolutely

on guard. Mr. Le Roy was thinking about her; just,
perhaps, on account of her silence. She interested him
because she was so unlike the women to whom he was
accustomed; so doubly unlike any one whom he could
have expected to meet in Lenox. He was used to
have women strive to please him, offer perpetual incense
at his shrine, — but this girl was evidently indifferent
with an indifference which he could not believe to
be assumed. She was gathering flowers and leaves as
she went on, — a spray of dog-rose, a clump of violets,
a stalk or two of wild lilies of the valley, anemones, a
columbine, — he noticed the artistic grace with which
she grouped them. She walked with a free, grand
tread. Her voice was cool and clear, her accent perfect.
How had it all come? His wonder culminated
in a question.

“Were you born in Lenox, Miss Fordyce?”

“Born and bred,” — she answered, lightly, — “as
native a product of the soil as these violets. Indeed,
I have never been out of Berkshire county in my life.”

“And, I presume, do not care to go out of it, since
it has suited you so well?”

His eyes expressed the admiration which something
in her quiet self-respect forbade him to put into plainer
language. She smiled.

“There, at last, your penetration is at fault. I do
want very much to go away from Lenox. I should
want, when I am old, or tired of the world, to come
back here again, and die under these skies. I think I
could not rest quietly in my grave, unless I were

buried in the shadow of these Berkshire hills. But in
the mean time I do long to see something of life. I
was interested to meet you to-day, because you came
from the great world outside, and I fancied there would
be something of its atmosphere about you, making you
different from the men to whom I am accustomed.”

“And you are disappointed?” he asked; and then
waited for her slow-coming answer with an interest for
which he mentally scoffed at himself.

She looked at him thoughtfully and deliberately,
before she spoke.

“No, I do not think that I am. You are not just
what I fancied, but there is something about you which
is not of Lenox.”

He wondered in what respects he had failed to realize
her conception of him, — whether he were less than she
had thought, or more, — but he saw no encouragement
to ask the question in her quiet eyes; if indeed his own
pride had not stood as much in the way as her reserve.
Just then he registered a vow, mentally, that before
the summer was over he would know just what she
thought about him, just how much power he could
gain over her. The affair began, even in this early stage,
to interest him keenly.

Do not commit the error of fancying that his heart
was touched. His cousin had said, you know, that a
heart had been left out when he was made. However
that may have been, he certainly had not as yet developed
any sentiment for Elizabeth Fordyce; but his
curiosity was thoroughly aroused about her, and his

masculine vanity, of which he had no small share, was
up in arms. Before the summer was over, not only
would he know her thoughts concerning him, but they
should be what he pleased to make them.

The encounter gave new zest to the prospect of his
summer campaign. He had planned to go to Newport
later in the season, after his literary work should be
accomplished; but there would be time enough for this
little innocent game of hearts before August.

Not a single throb of pity moved him, as he watched
this young, imaginative, fresh-hearted girl standing at
length on the summit of the Peak, and looking off
over the landscape, her dark eyes shining, and the
swift color of excitement staining her cheeks. He
began to think her really handsome, as he saw her now,
in contrast with her three cousins, whose beauty had
been so much more striking at first sight. They were
“well-blown,” as he phrased it to himself. The sun
had treated them as he usually does light-complexioned,
thin-skinned women. Their delicate little faces were
flushed and scorched, till they looked like full-blown
peonies; and there was an unpicturesque disarray
about their general get-up which certainly put them at
a sad disadvantage.

Queen Bess looked as cool as when she started. Her
white robes were unstained. The flowers in her hands,
even, were not withered. She stood there, looking off
towards the world she longed to try, with her wide
eyes and her glowing cheeks, — an incarnation, surely,
of pure-hearted, high-souled, graceful womanhood. And

Elliott Le Roy speculated about the phases of feeling
through which she should pass before he had done
with her, as coolly, and analytically, and selfishly, as if
that fine, strong nature of hers had not held capacities
for joy and sorrow which he could no more comprehend
or measure than one could fathom the ocean with
a lady's ribbon.

The whole party went down the Peak in company,
after half an hour's restful enjoyment of the view. Mr.
Le Roy was thrown with Kate and Bell Fordyce; or
perhaps he let himself drift into their neighborhood
just to see if it would pique Elizabeth. It vexed him
a little to perceive that it did not. She was just as calm
and bright as when she had climbed up the height at
his side, — silent for the most part, as she had been then,
but with a face full of enjoyment, eager eyes which
swept the landscape, and yet with gentle words and
attentive air for every one who particularly addressed
her. “Wild thing, shy thing,” he called her to himself,
remembering a line of an old song. Would any one
ever tame her? Would she ever come and go at any
man's hest, — lay her heart in any man's hand? If so,
and he were not that man, it would be easy to hate him.

At the foot of the Peak she sat down again, and
began to make the violet-wreath for which they had all
been gathering blossoms, but for whose twining no
fingers were so deft as her own. Preparations for
dinner were going on. A fire was kindled amid difficulties
and laughter. A kettle was hung on some
crossed twigs, and girlish heads bent over baskets and

hampers. Mr. Le Roy looked on for a few moments
without offering his assistance, and then lazily sauntered
over to Elizabeth.

“So you don't help to get dinner?” he asked her.

“No, my part is to make the wreath, and arrange
the flowers for the vases. I always put out fires when I
try to kindle them; and I think I can't be one of the
wicked, for whatever I do does not prosper, in a domestic
line, at least.”

“I think you could kindle some fires that many
waters could not quench, neither could the floods
drown,” Le Roy said, slowly, watching her cheeks
for a blush which did not come.

“Could you get me some water from the spring for
these vases?” she asked, trying her flowers into one of
them, so coolly that he could not tell whether she had
comprehended him.

“Don't send me away for cold water,” he said, pathetically.
“I get enough of that here.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Oh, you must do something as well as the rest, if
you want your dinner. Kate is Queen bee, and she
won't allow any drones in the hive.”

“Cruelty, thy name is Miss Fordyce!” he sighed,
with a dramatic air; but he took a pitcher and brought
her the water, notwithstanding. When he came back
she made a diversion by filling her vases and putting
them on the table; and then the crown must be adjusted
to Kate's golden head; and by that time dinner was
ready.

For the hour or two after the feast fate was unkind
to Mr. Le Roy. He had no opportunity to get Queen
Bess to himself; and he was one of those men for whom
nothing is so stupid as a general conversation. He revenged
himself on fate by doing his utmost to disturb
the peace of mind of Miss Emmie, the youngest Fordyce,
by pouring into her ear the most absurd and
unmitigated flatteries, which she swallowed just as
children a little younger do candy, regardless of whence
it comes, but with eager and unsophisticated delight in
its sweetness. He soon tired of this too easy game,
and managing to get the ear of his cousin, Mrs. Henry
Fordyce, the most carelessly good-natured of matrons,
he asked in an undertone, — “Jule, would it be any
harm for me to invite one of those Fordyces to drive
home with me?”

Mrs. Henry considered a moment. “I don't believe
it would,” she said at length. “To be sure you never
saw them till to-day; but they are my nieces, and you
are my cousin. No, I don't see any harm.”

Of course Elizabeth was the “one of the Fordyces”
whom Mr. Le Roy had in his mind, and wanted to have
in his wagon. He went up to her, armed with her
aunt's approval.

“I wonder if you would have confidence enough in
my skill as a whip to trust me to drive you home?”
he asked, adroitly, as if he were suggesting the only
possible objection to his arrangement. “I spoke to
Julia about it, and she thought you would be safe
enough. She has sat behind my horse two or three

times; but there are not many things of which she is
afraid.”

Miss Fordyce considered a moment. It was not
quite the thing, even in primitive Lenox, to drive
with a gentleman so nearly a stranger; but then he
was her aunt's cousin, and he was an historical philosopher,
or a philosophical historian, she had not found
out which yet, but she wanted to find out. Yes, she
would go.

They started a little earlier than the rest, for they
found they were agreed in disliking to take other people's
dust; and it would be equally objectionable to
lead the cavalcade, and inflict on simple-hearted followers
the annoyance they shirked for themselves. So
they solved the problem by starting half an hour in
advance of the time appointed; and though they took
the longest way home, and made a considerable detour
even from that, they were standing at the Fordyce
gate, and quite ready to welcome the three Graces on
their arrival.

Soon after they set out, Elizabeth plucked up courage
and asked Mr. Le Roy about his books. He saw
the eager light in her eyes, and smiled secretly. So it
was as an author that she was interested in him. That
might answer for the world, but he chose to make his first
impression upon her in his private capacity as a man.

He answered carelessly, — “My books are not books
at all. The papers I am writing now may possibly be
put into book form some time; but the Bostonians are
to have the benefit of them first in the shape of lectures

before their Lowell Institute, — dull old lectures about
the history of a certain epoch. For the rest, I've only
written articles for the monthlies and quarterlies, and a
lecture now and then. Did Cousin Julia delude you
into thinking me an author, and so make all Lenox
ready to be shy of me in advance?”

“I don't know about the delusion. She certainly
said you were an author, — at least Kate told me so, —
and I cannot see any thing incorrect in the statement,
according to your own showing. I suppose Addison
was none the less an author because his best energies
were given to a daily paper.”

“Oh, if you are going back into the classics, I cry
quarter. I foresee I shall find you too clever for me.”

A smile flickered round his lips as he spoke, which
vexed Elizabeth and made her silent. She was willing
enough to be laughed with, but it would not be easy
to win her forgiveness for man or woman who should
laugh at her.

They bowled along for a little while under green
trees over the still country road. Le Roy had understood
her silence, and was thinking how to redeem himself.
Presently he said, with a complete assumption of
frankness, — “I vexed you just now, but you vexed me
first. My ideal is so high that I feel myself a tyro, and
it sounds like satire when any one talks to me of authorship.
Let us cry quits and begin again. I have seen
some really great men. When I was in England I
heard Robert Browning talk, and Tennyson. Which
do you like best?”

“I don't know. I think I should say Browning; and
yet Tennyson has written two verses which move me
more than almost any others in the language.”

“What are they?”

He asked the question in a quiet, matter-of-fact way,
and she answered it as simply as if she had not been a
young girl, talking to a man whose fascinations had
already proved too much for many a woman's peace:—

“Jove, how that girl could love!” Le Roy said to
himself, listening to the quivering voice, watching the
changeful color. “I should like to see how she would
look when once her whole nature was waked up.”

When her voice died on the air, which seemed to
hold the echo of its melody a moment after the last
word was spoken, he looked at her steadily, till the
clear eyes drooped.

“You are tempting fate with that prayer, Miss Fordyce.

You stand in the east of your life, and already
I see the rose of dawning. But you are cool of head,
if warm of heart, and I think you will not go mad.”

She did not answer. His longing to tame this “wild
thing, shy thing,” was growing on him. I wish Elizabeth
had had a mother just then to say a prayer for
her happiness; for Elliott Le Roy was a man pitiless as
death, and what he longed for he generally attained.