University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
CAROLINE AND ALICE.

Before the Doctor could so much as ask his brother
how he was, a gay voice from the carriage exclaimed:

“Oh, uncle Max! oh, uncle Max! we're so glad to see
you!”

“Who's that, pray?” cried the Doctor, hurrying to the
carriage.

“Me, uncle; Caroline! Caroline and Alice.”

“Bless my heart!” cried Doctor Courtlandt, “have I
any nieces so tall and charming! Is it possible that my
bad little children have grown up such elegant damsels!”

“Yes—here are your bad little children,” said Caroline,
laughing and springing at one quick bound into the
arms that were opened to receive her, “I'm very bad yet,
uncle Max! but I am so, so glad to see you!”

With which words the girl threw her arms round his
neck and kissed him most enthusiastically.

“Why, how nice she is!” cried the Doctor, “a perfect
fairy! And where is my little Alice?”

“Here I am, uncle,” said a musical voice behind Caroline.
“I was on the wrong side you know, uncle, or I
would have had the first kiss.”

And Alice more quietly got out of the carriage, but
quite as affectionately greeted her uncle.

“What fairies!” cried the delighted Doctor, “did any
body ever—”

“No, never!” said Caroline, with a burst of merry
laughter. “And how stately you have begun to look,”
she added. “Oh, what a bear you are with that enormous
beard.”

“I won't eat you, Carry!”

“I'm not afraid.”

“And you are not, I know, Alice,” said Doctor Courtlandt.

“Oh, no! not of you, uncle,” said Alice, demurely, “no
body could be afraid of you.”

“What a little witch. Let's see, how old?”

“I'm seventeen, uncle,” Alice replied.

“And so am I!” cried Caroline. “Where's cousin Max?”

“There, on the porch; he will be delighted to see you.”

“But I won't kiss him,” said Caroline, pouting and
shaking her head, “I am too old now to kiss cousins.”

“Maybe he won't ask you,” said Doctor Courtlandt,
delighted, “but never mind, I will always kiss you, that
will console you. Come, Alice dear, there is your father
already shaking hands with Max.”

The two young women, each with an arm round Doctor
Courtlandt's waist, demurely drew near the group upon
the porch.

“Here are the girls, Max,” said the Doctor. “Caroline
—this is Caroline—says she will not kiss you.”

“Alice too!” cried Caroline. “I am not by myself.
You know we are growing too old.”

Max with a slight blush stepped forward gracefully,
and inclosed the two young girls in his arms.

“You know,” he said, smiling, “this is mere French
form; I could not assent to your being too old, cousin
Caroline—nor you, cousin Alice.”

With which words Max very calmly kissed both his
cousins.

“Bravo!” cried Doctor Courtlandt, laughing. “What
do you say now, Miss Caroline.”

Caroline submitted to the Doctor's raillery with a good
grace; Alice with some blushes.

“Go make Max's acquaintance, girls,” said the Doctor,
“you would find a walk out on the hill side, or mountain

rather, a much more pleasant pastime, than a chat here
with an old man of science like myself.”

“Oh, no!” said Caroline, coquettishly. “I prefer the
risen to the rising generation decidedly. I want you to
tell me all about your travels.”

“My travels?”

“Yes indeed, uncle. You have been away so long, oh
so long; mother says she never expected to see you again.”

“Why did she not come to-day? Is she unwell,
Barry?” asked the Doctor.

“Somewhat, brother,” said the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt in
his soft voice, “she was afraid of the ride in the cool air,
though she was longing to see you.”

“I will go over this very moment; I must see her.”

“Not before you have given us an account of your
travels,” said Caroline.

“Why, Max will do as much, niece; ask him.”

Max, with his hat in his hand, stood quietly aloof. All
his momentary vivacity had disappeared, and his face had
fallen back, so to speak, into its old, sad, listless expression
of weariness and melancholy. A shadow passed over
the Doctor's brow, and an acute pain seemed to agitate
his features, as his eye fell upon his son. But by a powerful
effort of that strong will which was the most striking
trait in his character, he banished the shadow from his
brow and the tremor from his lips, if not the pain from
his heart.

“Will you not, Max?” he added.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the young man, listlessly, “I
will answer any questions cousin Caroline or cousin Alice
ask me, with pleasure.”

“Hum!” said Caroline pouting, “we want you to tell
us all about it, cousin Maximilian. We would not know
what questions to ask.”

Max bowed slightly.

“And do you suppose,” said the Doctor, “that I would

sit down and commence, ab initio, the narrative of my
travels, Miss Caroline? Upon my word the young ladies
of the present day are exceedingly reasonable. Come,
Max is waiting; go and walk. We old people will
remain behind.”

The young girls and Max saw that the brothers wished
to converse alone, and so without further parley left them.

The Doctor and the Rev. Mr. Courtlandt gazed at each
other with much feeling, separated as they had been so
long. The minister was a very different personage from
that Barry whose boyhood and early manhood we have
seen something of;—for those twenty years which had so
little changed Maximilian Courtlandt, had slowly but
surely revolutionized his brother's character. He was
still most affectionate and tender even; but far more grave;
and on his broad, firm brow study and the weight of pastoral
duty had made many wrinkles. He was pale and
serious; but now his face was lit up with unaccustomed
joy. His whole heart seemed to go forth to embrace the
heart of his brother, and tears for a moment dimmed his
large thoughtful eyes. Then they commenced the conversation
which friends and relations are always so eager
for, after a long absence. The clergyman told his brother
all the events which had taken place in the neighborhood,
during those long years of his absence—the deaths, the
births, the marriages—the thousand familiar occurrences
which only conversation can convey; which are found
neither in the newspapers, nor in the correspondence of
our friends. The Doctor then in the same manner gave
an account of his “life and adventures” since their parting;
and then the conversation turned upon Max.

“Max is still listless and melancholy,” said the Doctor,
“you know this was the reason for my expatriation so
long. I do not think he is much better, and I have returned
with a smile on my lip, but much sadness in my
heart, to the old scenes here, with the hope that the society

of friends and relations will work some change for
the better in his spirits.”

“He does not look well.”

“No; we had a terrible scene down there in Martinsburg—at
the old house. Jenny, the old nurse, you know,
grew garrulous and agitated Max very much—though
God pardon me, I thought he could not be more deeply
affected. Well, brother, I hope all this will wear off with
time. He is better after all, I hope; though not much.
I tried him with every possible diversion—but none absorbed
him sufficiently to drown his memories. He was
always the same calm face, the same unimpressible heart.

“But let us end this sad talk; I have great hopes of
the boy now we are once more back to the old scenes.
These are almost new to him; as we lived in the old
happy days,” the doctor said sighing, “down in Martinsburg.
Fresh mountain air, the exercise he will take,
and, not least, the society of Caroline and Alice will I am
sure make him once more a merry-hearted boy, instead
of the sombre and unsocial man of thirty which he now
resembles.—What charming children are your girls,
brother!” added the Doctor more cheerfully, and half-persuaded
by his own reasoning of the happiness his buoyant
nature shaped for him; “never have I seen brighter
faces or merrier hearts! But come, the sunlight is admirable;
let us take a stroll; I begin to feel like my
former self again.”