University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
COMFORT AND HELP TO THE WEAK-HEARTED.

Max came in looking ill-humored and melancholy: but
there was in this expression of disquietude nothing resembling
his habitual sombre and listless apathy. Plainly his
moodiness was the result of some direct tangible circumstance
which had lately occurred; and that, the watchful
eye of Doctor Courtlandt discerned as usual at the first
glance. Thus the young man's low spirits did not afflict
him in the least; very evidently it did not lie very deep
beneath the surface, and thus would easily pass away.

Max saluted his father and aunt, and after a few listless
words again put on his hat, and carelessly walked out
upon the hill. He bent his way to the spot where they
had wandered along on that beautiful evening—himself
his cousins, and Mr. Robert Emberton—and reaching the
moss-covered rock upon which Alice and her companion
had seated themselves, stopped moodily. The evening
was very fine; the sun, just about to set, filled the air
with its warm rosy light, and the whole universe seemed
to be at rest. The perfume of the autumn leaves floated
hither and thither borne along by the soft breeze, and
there was in every feature of the fair landscape, vailed as
it was by the slight haze, that thoughtful, melancholy
grace, which inclines the heart and memory to dreamy
reverie.

The young man seated himself upon the rock where
Alice had sat, and fell into this dreamy species of reverie.
But there was little inclination for pleasant thought in
his mind. That visit from which he had anticipated so
much delight, had by one of those unlucky circumstances

which seem to spring up in the path of all men like an
adverse fate, been turned into a bitter trial. He had
gone from home on that morning, happy, joyful, full of
an “unaccustomed spirit,” which had “lifted him above
the ground with cheerful thoughts.” Alice, he said to
himself, would be there to meet him, and in her dear
company he would spend a long happy day, in the bright
sunshine, wandering in search of flowers, directing his
steps to every pretty knoll and forest glade, drinking
in the music of her voice, the soft light of her tender
thoughtful eyes.

All this the young man had promised himself, and all
this had been reversed by the simple presence of Mr.
Robert Emberton, who like a Satan entered his Paradise
and threw every thing into confusion.

Mr. Emberton throughout the whole day—Max reflected
with bitter enmity—had attached himself to Alice,
and this on the avowed ground that Caroline had quarreled
with him, and for the time had declined to accept his
overtures of friendship. That this was all a pretense on
Mr. Emberton's part, merely a ruse to cover his preference
for Alice, was perfectly plain to the young man; and this
view was completely substantiated by the simple fact that
Caroline had plainly not “fallen out” with Mr. Emberton.
He, Max, had attached himself perforce to that young lady,
and in consequence a drama was enacted, of which the
former scene upon the spot he now occupied was but the
rehearsal; a drama full of mistakes, misunderstandings,
explanations, and complaints. So the day passed, and
four persons who undeniably took pleasure in each other's
society, had separated with ill-concealed bad-humor.

It was perfectly plain to the young man that Alice did
not care for him, whether she felt a very lively affection
for Mr. Emberton, or not. This possibility made Max at
the same time wrathful and wretched. If such were the
case what right had he to complain, he asked himself.

If Alice preferred the society of Mr. Emberton to his own,
was not such a preference perfectly proper and rational?
What was he, with his melancholy face and abstracted
manner, the young man thought—his proud lip curling
sorrowfully—that the young girl should abandon for his
society so very elegant a gentleman—so full of amusing
anecdote, and sparkling repartee, so easy, graceful, so
calculated to please the taste of women with his pleasant
humor!

The consequence of this train of thought was that
gradually the young man's mind—like a cup held beneath
a rock, dripping with brackish water—filled with
harsh and poisoned thoughts. Anger, jealousy, love,
chased each other incessantly through his moody brain,
and wrapped in this reverie so full of anguish, he lost
sight of the fair scene around him, as completely as if it
had no real existence; his feverish eyes fixed alone on
the scenes his brain had conjured up.

Suddenly he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and turning
round, saw his father who had approached without
his perceiving it, so profoundly had he been absorbed in
this bitter and agitating reverie.

“You are melancholy, my child,” said Doctor Courtlandt,
tenderly, “come, drive away these thoughts which
follow you like hounds; yield to them and they will tear
you down and kill you.”

The young man, troubled and gloomy, made no reply.

“I do not ask you the occasion of your melancholy,”
continued the Doctor, “but I offer you a medicine which
will prove a panacea, whatever your malady may be.
Plainly something annoys and agitates you. Well, take
my advice, and banish this something from your mind.”

“I can not, sir;—I confess I am annoyed,” the young
man added, in a low voice, “more than annoyed.”

“Well, rid yourself of this annoyance; for you can.
Youth is so credulous, so eager in every thing; all

things loom large and threatening through the mist of
inexperience. The shadows—long and enormous, it is
true, but shadows still—are, in your eyes, giants armed
with wrath and destruction. Laugh at them! laugh at
your annoyances! they are but shadows.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Max, “shadows—for they
darken my heart.”

“My son,” said Doctor Courtlandt, taking the young
man's arm and pointing to the setting sun, “what see
you there?”

“Sunset, sir—night is coming.”

“Nothing more?”

“Darkness and wind.”

“More, more is coming, Max, than darkness and cold,
and the chill biting wind! The morning also comes!—
the morning full of warmth, and light, and joy; filled
with the music of gay birds, instinct with hope and happiness!
You believe as much from faith, since you see
no trace now of any such thing; well, bring your faith
to bear upon the world! If God obscures the heart with
shadows, He can also again illuminate it with joy; if you
are unhappy, you may still be very happy. I have never
yet despaired; and because I have seen in every event of
my checkered life the hand of God. He does every thing
for the best, and lets no sparrow fall unheeded. Remember
that! The misery of His poor creatures here is
not pleasing to that merciful and omnipotent God; enough!
remember this, my child! Let us return.”

And accompanied by his son Doctor Courtlandt returned
to the house.