University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
MAX AND CAROLINE.

Max and the young ladies, his cousins, had a very
pleasant stroll on the bright mountain side, which was
now of a thousand colors. The autumn had made every
leaf blue, or yellow, or crimson, and when the wind shook
them together and came sobbing on from the far distance,
ever increasing in loudness until it passed on again and
died away, they resembled so many fluttering pennons
such as the knights of old times bore proudly aloft—the
gifts of their ladies fair—upon the heads of their upright
lances.

The two young girls, for a moment children again at
meeting once more with their long absent uncle, were now
more reserved and more like women. In truth they were
both upon the verge of womanhood, and if their first meeting
with Doctor Courtlandt seemed to stamp them as mere
impulsive children, their conduct on that occasion must
be attributed to the fact that he had always been their
fast friend and even playmate, and they were, thus,
overjoyed to see him back again. They now returned to
their usual placid and cheerful manner—Caroline laughing
gayly, it is true, at every thing; but quite womanly in
spite of it.

They were twins, and resembled each other strikingly
—though Caroline was much the taller of the two, and
had far more vivacity than Alice, whose large liquid eyes
were full of softness and tenderness.

Max enjoyed the stroll very much; the fresh air seemed
to enter into his blood and vivify it. His cheek brightened,
he smiled often, and catching from Caroline the

contagious buoyancy of her own spirits, became more
cheerful than he had been for years.

“How long you have been absent,” said Caroline, “but
now you are back again to stay, are you not?”

“Yes—I hope so, at least.”

“You will be quite an acquisiton to the neighborhood,”
said the young girl, laughing. “We have no beaux here
now, but Robert Emberton and some few more.”

“Robert Emberton—of the Glades?”

“Yes.”

“Is he agreeable?”

“Horrid, cousin Max! You can not imagine what a
fop he is—nothing seems to interest him; he says he is
ennuyé.”

Max smiled.

“What is he ennuyé about?” he asked.

“Nothing!” Caroline replied. “I suppose he thinks it
graceful to yawn and declare that the world is a bore—
that is his word; and pretend that nothing amuses him.
I told him when he came to see me last, that I couldn't
think of causing him such an inconvenience as a ride to
the Parsonage—grandfather's, you know—when it was so
very very far from the Glades—”

“Why, it is not.”

“About ten miles—not more, in truth. But to a person
who thinks every thing a `bore,' ten miles must be a
very great distance to ride—with only a dull young lady
to see.”

“If he said you were dull he showed very little taste,”
said Max, gallantly, “you are any thing but dull, cousin
Caroline.”

“Thank you, cousin Max; you have been traveling,
and now you come to make your pretty speeches to us
country girls.”

“Why, that is not a pretty speech,” said Max, smiling,
“only the truth.”

“Thank you, then.”

“And do you think Mr. Robert Emberton is so affected,
cousin Alice,” asked the young man.

“Oh, no; I think he is very witty and amusing,” said
Alice, with a demure smile, “he says I am not half as
dull as he has heard people say.”

“And so you think he is impudent—not ridiculous, as
Caroline, I mean cousin Caroline, says?”

“No; he is not impudent. I think he is very amusing,
and though he certainly is affected, I am sure he is a
very nice fellow.”

“A difference of opinion certainly, and I must judge for
myself. I am going to live here now, and though I am
not well, and very little inclined to go into society, I shall
visit you and uncle Barry often, when I shall doubtless
see Mr. Emberton.”

“Have you been sick?” asked Alice.

Max's face, clouded.

“No,” he said, “but very low spirited.”

“Oh, you must not be low spirited, cousin,” said
Caroline, “never be low spirited. There is nothing in
the wide world more—unphilosophical—that is the right
word, I believe—than low spirits. You shall come and
see us, and, if necessary, I will laugh all day long to
amuse you. Then we will ride together, walk together,
flirt together, if you choose.”

Max's momentary sadness disappeared before these
merry and joyous words.

“You have a great many pleasant things in store for
me, cousin,” he said, smiling. “How can I thank you—
for the thousand suggestions you make, all tending to remove
my unhappy malady, low spirits? I agree to all
without hesitation—”

“Even the last?”

“The last—?”

“That we shall flirt together, you know. You agree
to that, too?”

Max shrugged his shoulders: had Doctor Courtlandt
seen that shrug he would have been overjoyed.

“You must teach me,” he replied, with a smile and a
glance of admiration at his cousin.

“Teach you to flirt?”

“Certainly.”

“You not know how to flirt?”

“Why should I be so well-instructed, pray, cousin
Caroline—come, tell me.”

“Why, you are so experienced—”

“I am a mere boy, as you see.”

“So old—”

“I am not yet nineteen.”

“Oh, that is nothing I am but seventeen. You may
be very young, but you are very much of a traveler—have
been I mean.”

“I am afraid I have traveled without eyes, if travelers
necessarily learn how to flirt with ladies.”

“Well I am jesting as usual, I perceive. Come, cousin,
tell us of your travels—when you went away you were a
mere child—a boy, if you prefer.”

Max's countenance assumed its old listless expression
of melancholy gravity.

“I could only tell you that we went all over Europe,
and that I was very slightly interested with any thing.”

Caroline did not observe the melancholy expression of
the young man's countenance, and would have pressed
him further, but Alice changed the conversation. The
past, she saw, was plainly full of shadow for the young
man, and like a woman of intelligence she determined to
endeavor thenceforth to wean his thoughts from it. She
had already penetrated his secret grief, that grief so apparent
in his sad eyes and lips.

“See what a beautiful primrose up there by the golden-rod,
cousin Max,” she said, pointing to a rock which over-hung,
like a miniature precipice, their path, “gather it
for me, please.”

“And some for me, my cavalier,” said Caroline.

“With pleasure,” said Max, and after considerable
trouble, he brought both the primrose and the golden-rod,
from their places on the steep side of the mossy rock.

“How sweet!” said Caroline, “and this golden-rod
would really ornament the flower vases beautifully. Get
some more, cousin Max.”

The young man smilingly complied, and after a quarter
of an hour's toil clambering hither and thither, returned
with his arms full of primroses, asters, and other flowers
of the autumn. Caroline received them joyfully.

“What a fine color you have now, cousin Max!” said
Alice, quietly, “your cheeks are as red as peonies.”

“I am sure you only want exercise to be as hardy as a
mountaineer,” said Caroline, “now let us go back, cousin,
for I think father will wish to return: how beautiful my
flowers are!” she added, “and how much I am obliged
to you, cousin Max.”

“I am the gainer, I believe,” said the young man,
smiling, “I feel more buoyant than I have felt for a great
while.”

“I am glad our acquaintance has commenced so propitiously,”
said Alice, smiling upon the young man, and
taking timidly his offered arm, “you must come to the
Parsonage now, and we will walk out, and you shall
gather some of our flowers.”

“As I live!” cried Caroline, “here is uncle coming to
meet us. Oh, uncle, see my pretty flowers, which cousin
Max collected for me. He is an elegant beau!”

“And you a belle of the finest metal,” said the delighted
Doctor, “I have never heard a clapper—by which rude
word I mean a female tongue—which made more musical
utterance. It is far merrier than the merriest cathedral
chimes—your laughter, I mean, Carry—which is a very
gallant speech you must confess in an old savant like myself.”

“Cousin Max is gallant, too,” said Caroline,” very gallant.”

“How could I be otherwise with you,” said Max,
laughing and bowing.

“See now the fine foreign gentleman with his elegant
congé!” said Caroline, merrily.

“Bravo!” cried the Doctor, overjoyed at seeing his son
so animated, and his cheeks so healthfully red, “she has
you there, Max! Come you may take my arm, Carry, as
you and Max have quarreled.”

And so they returned to the Lock, in cheerful talk.