University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
ALICE'S SECRET.

On the next morning Doctor Courtlandt rose with the
sun, and opening his window to the fresh morning air,
inhaled joyfully that breath of golden autumn so full of
life and strength.

“Ah,” he said, “I should be in the hills by this time!
I feel my old warlike instincts revive; I am conscious of
a deadly enmity to deer and turkeys. I should now be
filling my chest with the full-flowing wind of the Sleepy
Creek Mountain, yonder—I should be in the midst of
those splendid woods hearing the merry leaves rustle instead
of thus being a tardy sluggard here!”

And Doctor Courtlandt dressed with the ease and
rapidity of an old traveler; and gay, light-hearted, ready
to break his jokes upon any one who approached, descended
to the breakfast room.

Max was already there bending over a portfolio which
lay upon his knees. His long fair hair half covered his
face, as he sat with his delicate profile turned to the door by
which his father entered, and the red, cheerful light of the
crackling twigs in the fire-place—only a handful, to dispel
the morning chilliness—brightened his eyes, and mingled
itself with the clear sunlight streaming through the window
opening on the east.

The Doctor clapped him on the shoulder.

“What brought you down so soon, my boy? you are
not generally so early a riser,” said he laughing.

Max raised his face; he was smiling.

“I could not bear to lie in bed on such a lovely morning,
sir,” he replied.

“Why, that is well said! Now suppose we go and
look at the mountains. I was born in the mountains, and
have all my life risen early to go and see the morning
mist curl up from the streams.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Max, putting on his hat,
and placing under his arm the portfolio.

“Oh, grand!” and with this joyful exclamation, Doctor
Courtlandt, accompanied by his son, went out upon the
mountain side.

“See,” said he, “how fresh the trees and all are from
their night's rest, so to speak. How still the air is; nothing
is stirring but those small birds, and that hawk floating
far up above the mountain upon his long wings. Observe
the mist hanging above Meadow Branch—no trace of the
Parsonage or any other house. Yes! upon my word!
there it comes out! the sun is routing the mist—you
have never seen any thing as pretty in Europe, my boy!
and day is on us! with all the fresh vigor of youth and
joy. That wind! hear how it floods the air with merry
laughter! the trees are positively so much variegated
cloth of gold! and the leaves dancing to the tinkling
music! Ah! the air is full of it!”

Max stood rapt with the beauty of the fair October
morning; and for the first time felt that autumn was not
necessarily so sad. His eye sparkled, his cheeks filled
with blood, and his eye drank in rapturously the whole
beautiful landscape.

“Splendid; is it not?” said Doctor Courtlandt, “if I
could only sketch this scene!”

“Here is my portfolio, sir.”

“Do you ever draw now?”

“Very seldom; but I am determined some morning to
make a sketch of the valley from this very spot.”

In opening the portfolio, the young man's hand displaced
a paper, which fell out on the grass. He picked
it up, smiling.

“Here is something about the mountains, sir,” he said.

“What—poetry? Heaven defend me!”

“Yes; and I had selected it for Alice.”

“For Alice?”

“You recollect yesterday, when they went away, Alice
said I had promised her something. My promise was to
write for her some verses, and this was already written.”

“About the mountains?”

“Here it is, sir; it was written on the Atlantic, years
ago.”

“How! when we were—”

“Going to Europe; yes, sir; it sounds low-spirited,
and I was very much so at the time.”

“But you are not now, my boy?” said Doctor Courtlandt,
wistfully, taking the paper as he spoke.

“No, sir;” Max replied with a smile, “I believe I am
getting hearty again. I feel very well indeed, and was
laughing a little while ago at the excess of sentiment
which produced those verses—when you found me in the
breakfast-room, you know.”

The verses were written in a plain, delicate hand, and
ran as follows:

“Hum!” said the Doctor, critically, “the last verse
seems to me redundant; but I have no doubt it will serve
your purpose. Well, you are back to your mountain
side! Don't write melancholy poetry any more, my boy.”

“I never write, sir; and I am sure you would not
have been annoyed with my scribbling this morning, but
for the fact of our walk out here.”

“No annoyance, my dear boy; pleasure—pleasure;
but come, I see aunt yonder marshaling the turkeys, and
now see! she beckons.”

“Good-morning,” said the old lady, who was counting
the keys in her large key-basket, “why, Max, you look
uncommonly well.”

“And I have an excellent appetite, aunt,” replied Max,
laughing.

“Come, agreeable Mrs. Courtlandt,” said the Doctor,
“let us have some breakfast, if you please.”

“It is ready, nephew.”

And so they all entered and sat down to breakfast.
Max, as he said, had an excellent appetite; and so overjoyed
was the worthy Doctor at seeing his son thus recovering
his strength, that they had no sooner risen from
the table than he suggested a bout with the foils. Max
went up stairs to procure them.

Just as he left the room a merry voice was heard at the
door, crying, “Good-morning, good folks!” and Caroline
ran in.