As,in the quiet June evening,Harold Van Berg glided through the shadows of the Highlands,there came a slight change over his spirit of philosophical and artistic experiment.The season comported with his early manhood,and the witching hour and the scenery were not conducive to cold philosophy.He who prided himself on his steady pulse and a devotion to art so absorbing that it even prompted his impulses and gave character to his recreation,was led to feel,on this occasion,that his mistress was vague and shadowy,and to half wish for that companionship which the most self-reliant natures have craved at times,ever since man first felt,and God knew,that it was "not good for him to be alone."If he could turn from the beauty of the sun-tipped hills and rocks and the gloaming shadows to an appreciative and sympathetic face,such as he could at least imagine the visage of Ida Mayhew might become,would not his enjoyment of the beauty he saw be doubly enhanced?In his deepest consciousness he was compelled to admit that it would.He caught a glimpse of the truth that he would never attain in his highest manhood until he had allied himself to a womanhood which he should come to believe supremely true and beautiful.
The ringing of the bell announced his landing,and in the hurry and bustle of looking after his luggage and obtaining a ticket which he had forgotten to procure,he speedily became again,in the world's estimation,and perhaps in his own,a practical,sensible man.An hour or two's ride among he hills brought him at last to the Lake House,where he selected a room that had a fine prospect of the mountains,the far distant river,and the adjacent open country,engaging it only for a brief time so that he might depart when he chose,in case the object of his pursuit should not appear,or he should weary of the effort,or despair of its success.
A few days passed,but the face which had so haunted his fancy presented no actual appearance.The scenery,however,was beautiful,the weather so perfect,and he enjoyed his rambles among the hills and his excursions on the water so thoroughly that he was already growing slightly forgetful of his purpose and satisfied that he could enjoy himself a few weeks without the zest of artistically redeeming the face of Ida Mayhew.But one day,while at dinner,he overheard some gossip concerning a "great belle"who was to come that evening,and he at once surmised that it was the fair stranger he had seen at the concert.
At the time,therefore,of the arrival of the evening stage he observantly puffed his cigar in a corner of the piazza,and was soon rewarded by seeing the object of his contemplated experiment step out of the vehicle,with the airy grace and confidence of one who regards each new abiding-place as a scene of coming pleasures and conquests,and who feels sure every glance toward her is one of admiration.There were eyes,however,that noted disapprovingly her jaunty self-assurance and self-assertion,and when she met those eyes her complacency seemed disturbed at once,for she flushed and promptly turned her back upon them.In fact,from the time she had first seen Van Berg's frowning face it had been a disagreeable memory,and now here it was again and frowning still.Although he sat at a distance from the landing-place,her eyes seemed drawn towards his as if by some fascination,and she already had the feeling that whenever he was present she would be conscious of his cool,critical observation.
Van Berg had scarcely time to note a rather stout and overdressed person emerge from the stage,how was evidently the young lady's mother,when Ik Stanton,with his bays and a light country wagon,dashed up to the main entrance.Stanton was an element in the artistic problem that Van Berg had not bargained for,and what influence he would have,friendly or adverse,only time could show.
While Stanton was accompanying his aunt and cousin to the register,as the gentleman of the party,the young lady said to him:
"That horrid artist friend of yours is here.I wish he hadn't come.Did you tell him we were coming here?""No,'pon my honor."
"I have believe you did.If so I'll never forgive you,for the very sight of him spoils everything.""Come now,Coz,be reasonable.From all the indications I have seen,Van Berg is the last man to follow you here or anywhere else,even though he knew of your prospective movements.He is here,as scores of others are,for his own pleasure.So follow your mother to your room,smooth your ruffled plumage and come down to supper."Even Miss Mayhew's egotism could find no fault with so reasonable an explanation,and she went pouting up the stairway in anything but a complacent mood.
Stanton stepped out upon the piazza to greet his friend,saying:
"Why,Van,it is an unexpected pleasure to find you here.""I was equally and quite as agreeably surprised to see you drive to the door.If you cousin had not come I might have helped you exercise your bays.I am doing some sketching in the vicinity.""My cousin shall not keep you from many an idle hour behind the bays--that is,if you will not carry your antipathy so far as to cut me on account of my relationship.""I'm not conscious of any antipathy for Miss Mayhew,"replied Van Berg,with a slight shrug.
"Oh,only indifference!Well,if you will both maintain that attitude there will be no trouble about the bays or anything else.
I'll smoke with you after supper."