"So it is," exclaimed Evelyn. "I can see John the Baptist standing here now, and hear his voice crying in the wilderness."
"Very likely," said Mrs. Mavick, persisting in her doubt, "of course in Zoar. Anywhere else in the world it would be called the Lover"s Leap."
"That is odd," said Alice; "there was a party of college girls came here two years ago and made up a story about it which was printed, how an Indian maiden pursued by a white man ran up this hill as if she had been a deer, disappeared from his sight through these bushes, and took the fatal leap. They called it the Indian Maiden"s Rock. But it didn"t take. It will always be Pulpit Rock."
"So you see, Miss McDonald," said Philip, "that writers cannot graft legends on the old stock."
"That depends upon the writer," returned the Scotch woman, shortly. "I didn"t see the schoolgirl"s essay."
When the luncheon was disposed of, with the usual adaptation to nomadic conditions, and the usual merriment and freedom of personal comment, and the wit that seems so brilliant in the open air and so flat in print, Mrs. Mavick declared that she was tired by the long climb and the unusual excitement.
"Perhaps it is the Pulpit," she said, "but I am sleepy; and if you young people will amuse yourselves, I will take a nap under that tree."
Presently, also, Alice and the governess withdrew to the edge of the precipice, and Evelyn and Philip were left to the burden of entertaining each other. It might have been an embarra.s.sing situation but for the fact that all the rest of the party were in sight, that the girl had not the least self-consciousness, having had no experience to teach her that there was anything to be timid about in one situation more than in another, and that Philip was so absolutely content to be near Evelyn and hear her voice that there was room for nothing else in his thought.
But rather to his surprise, Evelyn made no talk about the situation or the day, but began at once with something in her mind, a directness of mental operation that he found was characteristic of her.
"It seems to me, Mr. Burnett, that there is something of what Miss McDonald regards as the lack of legend and romance in this region in our life generally."
"I fancy everybody feels that who travels much elsewhere. You mean life seems a little thin, as the critics say?"
"Yes, lacks color and background. But, you see, I have no experience.
Perhaps it"s owing to Miss McDonald. I cannot get the plaids and tartans and Jacobins and castles and what-not out of my head. Our landscapes are just landscapes."
"But don"t you think we are putting history and a.s.sociation into them pretty fast?"
"Yes, I know, but that takes a long time. I mean now. Take this lovely valley and region, how easily it could be made romantic."
"Not so very easy, I fancy."
"Well, I was thinking about it last night." And then, as if she saw a clear connection between this and what she was going to say, "Miss McDonald says, Mr. Burnett, that you are a writer."
"I? Why, I"m, I"m--a lawyer."
"Of course, that"s business. That reminds me of what papa said once: "It"s lucky there is so much law, or half the world, including the lawyers, wouldn"t have anything to do, trying to get around it and evade it." And you won"t mind my repeating it--I was a mite of a girl--I said, "Isn"t that rather sophistical, papa?" And mamma put me down"--It seems to me, child, you are using pretty big words.""
They both laughed. But suddenly Evelyn added:
"Why don"t you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Write a story about it--what Miss McDonald calls "invest the region with romance.""
The appeal was very direct, and it was enforced by those wonderful eyes that seemed to Philip to discern his powers, as he felt them, and his ambitions, and to express absolute confidence in him. His vanity was touched in its most susceptible spot. Here seemed to be a woman, nay, a soul, who understood him, understood him even better than Celia, the lifelong confidante. It is a fatal moment for men and women, that in which they feel the subtle flattery of being understood by one of the opposite s.e.x. Philip"s estimation of himself rose "pari pa.s.su" with his recognition of the discernment and intellectual quality of the frank and fascinating girl who seemed to believe in him. But he restrained himself and only asked, after a moment of apparent reflection upon the general proposition:
"Well, Miss Mavick, you have been here some time. Have you discovered any material for such use?"
"Why, perhaps not, and I might not know what to do with it if I had. But perhaps you don"t mean what I mean. I mean something fitting the setting. Not the domestic novel. Miss McDonald says we are vulgarized in all our ideals by so much domesticity. She says that Jennie Deans would have been just an ordinary, commonplace girl but for Walter Scott."
"Then you want a romance?"
"No. I don"t know exactly what I do want. But I know it when I see it."
And Evelyn looked down and appeared to be studying her delicate little hands, interlacing her taper, ivory fingers--but Philip knew she did not see them--and then looked up in his face again and said:
"I"ll tell you. This morning as we came up I was talking all the way with your cousin. It took some time to break the ice, but gradually she began to say things, half stories, half poetic, not out of books; things that, if said with a.s.surance, in the city would be called wit. And then I began to see her emotional side, her pure imagination, such a refinement of appreciation and justice--I think there is an immovable basis of justice in her nature--and charity, and I think she"d be heroic, with all her gentleness, if occasion offered."
"I see," said Philip, rather lightly, "that you improved your time in finding out what a rare creature Alice is. But," and this more gravely, "it would surprise her that you have found it out."
"I believe you. I fancy she has not the least idea what her qualities are, or her capacities of doing or of suffering, and the world will never know--that is the point-unless some genius comes along and reveals them."
"How?"
"Why, through a tragedy, a drama, a story, in which she acts out her whole self. Some act it out in society. She never will. Such sweetness and strength and pa.s.sion--yes, I have no doubt, pa.s.sion under all the reserve! I feel it but I cannot describe it; I haven"t imagination to make you see what I feel."
"You come very near it," said Philip, with a smile. And after a moment the girl broke out again:
"Materials! You writers go searching all round for materials, just as painters do, fit for your genius."
"But don"t you know that the hardest thing to do is the obvious, the thing close to you?"
"I dare say. But you won"t mind? It is just an ill.u.s.tration. I went the other day with mother to Alice"s house. She was so sort of distant and reserved that I couldn"t know her in the least as I know her now.
And there was the rigid Puritan, her father, representing the Old Testament; and her placid mother, with all the spirit of the New Testament; and then that dear old maiden aunt, representing I don"t know what, maybe a blind attempt through nature and art to escape out of Puritanism; and the typical old frame farmhouse--why, here is material for the sweetest, most pathetic idyl. Yes, the Story of Alice. In another generation people would come long distances to see the valley where Alice lived, and her spirit would pervade it."
There could be but one end to such a burst of enthusiasm, and both laughed and felt a relief in a merriment that was, after all, sympathetic. But Evelyn was a persistent creature, and presently she turned to Philip, again with those appealing eyes.
"Now, why don"t you do it?"
Philip hesitated a moment and betrayed some embarra.s.sment under the questioning of the truthful eyes.
"I"ve a good mind to tell you. I have--I am writing something."
"Yes?"
"Not that exactly. I couldn"t, don"t you see, betray and use my own relatives in that way."
"Yes, I see that."
"It isn"t much. I cannot tell how it will come out. I tell you--I don"t mean that I have any right to ask you to keep it as a secret of mine, but it is this way: If a writer gives away his imagination, his idea, before it is fixed in form on paper, he seems to let the air of all the world upon it and it disappears, and isn"t quite his as it was before to grow in his own mind."
"I can understand that," Evelyn replied.
"Well--" and Philip found himself launched. It is so easy to talk about one"s self to a sympathetic listener. He told Evelyn a little about his life, and how the valley used to seem to him as a boy, and how it seemed now that he had had experience of other places and people, and how his studies and reading had enabled him to see things in their proper relations, and how, finally, gradually the idea for a story in this setting had developed in his mind. And then he sketched in outline the story as he had developed it, and left the misty outlines of its possibilities to the imagination.
The girl listened with absorbing interest, and looked the approval which she did not put in words. Perhaps she knew that a bud will never come to flower if you pull it in pieces. When Philip had finished he had a momentary regret for this burst of confidence, which he had never given to any one else. But in the light of Evelyn"s quick approval and understanding, it was only momentary. Perhaps neither of them thought what a dangerous game this is, for two young souls to thus unbosom themselves to each other.
A call from Mrs. Mavick brought them to their feet. It was time to go.
Evelyn simply said: