University of Virginia Library

43. XLIII.

THE foreign letters rarely came singly; and Adèle
had already accomplished the reading of her own
missive, in which Maverick had spoken of his having
taken occasion to address, by the same mail, a line to
the Doctor on matters of business, “in regard to
which,” (he had said,) “don't, my dear Adèle, be too
inquisitive, even if you observe that it is cause of some
perplexity to the good Doctor. Indeed, in such case,
I hope you will contribute to his cheer, as I am sure
you have often done. We owe him a large debt of
gratitude, my child, and I rely upon you to add your
thankfulness to mine, and speak for both.”

“You look troubled, New Papa,” said Adèle. “Can
I help you? Eh, Doctor?”

And she came toward him in her playful manner,
and patted the old gentleman on the shoulder, while he
sat with his face buried in his hands.

“I don't think papa writes very cheerfully, do you?
Eh, — Doctor — Benjamin — Johns?” (tapping him
with more spirit.) — “Why, New Papa, what does this
mean?”

For the Doctor had raised his head now, and regarded
her with a look of mingled yearning and distrust
that was wholly new to her.

“Pray, New Papa, what is it?”

The old gentleman — so utterly guileless — was puzzled
for an answer; but his ingenuity came to his relief
at length.

“No, Adaly, your father does not write cheerfully, —
certainly not; he speaks of the probable loss of his
fortune.”

Now Adèle, with her parsonage training, had really
very little idea of fortune.

“That means I won't be rich, New Papa, I suppose.
But I don't believe it; he will have money enough,
I 'm sure. It don't disturb me, New Papa, — not one
whit.”

The Doctor was so poor a hand at duplicity that he
hardly knew what to say, but meantime was keeping
his eye with the same dazed look upon the charming
Adèle.

“You look so oddly, New Papa, — indeed you do!
You have some sermon in your head, now have n't you,
that I have broken in upon? — some sermon about —
about — let us see.”

And she moved toward his desk, where the letter of
Maverick still lay unfolded.

The Doctor, lost in thought, did not observe her

movement until she had the letter fairly in her hand;
then he seized it with a suddenness of gesture that instantly
caught the attention of Adèle.

A swift, deep color ran over her face.

“It is for my eye only, Adaly,” said the Doctor, excitedly,
folding it and placing it in his pocket.

Adèle, with her curiosity strangely piqued, said, —

“I remember now, papa told me as much.”

“What did he tell you, my child?”

“Not to be too curious about some business affairs
of which he had written you.”

“Ah!” said the Doctor, with a sigh of relief.

“But why should n't I be? Tell me, New Papa,”
(toying now with the silvered hair upon the forehead of
the old gentleman,) “is he really in trouble?”

“No new trouble, my child, — no new trouble.”

For a moment Adèle's thought flashed upon that
mystery of the mother she had never seen, and an uncontrollable
sadness came over her.

“Yet if there be bad news, why should n't I know
it?” said she. “I must know it some day.”

“`Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” said
the Doctor, gravely. “And if bad news should ever
come to you, my dear Adaly, — though I have none to
tell you now, — may you have strength to bear it like a
Christian!”

“I will! I can!” said she, with a great glow upon
her face.

Never more than in that moment had the heart of
the old gentleman warmed toward Adèle. Not by any
possibility could he make himself the willing instrument
of punishing the sin of the father through this
trustful and confiding girl. Nay, he felt, as he looked
upon her, that he could gladly make of himself a shelter
for her against such contempt or neglect as the
world might have in store.

When Reuben came presently to summon Adèle to
their evening engagement at the Elderkins', the Doctor
followed their retreating figures, as they strolled out
of the parsonage-gate, with a new and strange interest.
Most inscrutable and perplexing was the fact, that this
outcast child, whom scarce one in his parish would have
been willing to admit to the familiarities of home, —
this daughter of infidel France, about whose mind the
traditions of the Babylonish harlot had so long lingered,
— who had never known motherly counsel or a father's
reproof, — that she, with the stain of heathenism upon
her skirts, should have grown into the possession of such
a holy, placid, and joyous trust. And there was his
poor son beside her, the child of so many hopes, reared,
as it were, under the very droppings of the altar, still
wandering befogged in the mazes of error, if, indeed,
he were not in his secret heart a scoffer. Now that

such a result was wholly impracticable and impossible,
it did occur to him that perhaps no helpmeet for Reuben
could so surely guide him in the way of truth.
But of any perplexity of judgment on this score he
was now wholly relieved. If his own worldly pride
had not stood in the way, (and he was dimly conscious
of a weakness of this kind,) the wish of Maverick was
authoritative and final. The good man had not the
slightest conception of how matters might really stand
between the two young parties; he had discovered the
anxieties of Miss Eliza in regard to them, and had
often queried with himself if too large a taint of worldliness
were not coloring the maneuvers of his good
sister. For himself he chose rather to leave the formation
of all such ties in the hands of Providence, and
entertained singularly old-fashioned notions in regard
to the sacredness of the marriage-bond and the mystery
of its establishment.

In view, however, of possible eventualities, it was
necessary that he should come to a full understanding
with the spinster in regard to the state of affairs between
Adèle and Reuben, and that he should make
disclosure to her of the confessions of Maverick. For
the second time in his life the Doctor dreaded the necessity
of taking his sister into full confidence. The
first was on that remarkable occasion — so long past by
— when he had declared his youthful love for Rachel,

and feared the opposition which would grow out of the
spinster's family pride. Now, as then, he apprehended
some violent outbreak. He knew all her positiveness
and inflexibility, — an inflexibility with which, fortunately,
his convictions of duty rarely, if ever, came in
conflict. He therefore respected it very greatly. In
all worldly affairs, especially in all that regarded social
proprieties, he was accustomed to look upon the opinions
of his sister as eminently sound, and to give them
full indorsement. Unwittingly the old gentleman had
subordinated the whole arrangement of his ceremonious
visitings and of his wardrobe to the active and
lively suggestions of Miss Eliza. Over and over, when
in an absent moment he had slipped from his study for
a stroll down the street, the keen eye of the maiden
sister had detected him before yet he had passed
through the parsonage-gate, and her keen voice came
after him, —

“Really, Benjamin, that coat is hardly respectable at
this hour on the street. You 'll find your new one
hanging in the press.”

And the Doctor, casting a wary look over his person,
as if to protest in favor of an old friend, would go back
submissively to comply with the exactions of the precise
spinster. A wife could not have been more irritatingly
observant of such shortcomings; and it is doubtful
if even so godly a man would have yielded to a
wife's suggestions with fewer protests.

After due reflection on the letter of Maverick, the
Doctor stepped softly to the stairs, and said, —

“Eliza, may I speak with you for a few moments in
the study?”

There was something in the parson's tone that promised
an important communication; and Miss Johns
presently appeared and seated herself, work in hand,
over against the parson, at the study-table. Older than
when we took occasion to describe her appearance in
the earlier portion of this narrative, and — if it could
be — more prim and stately. A pair of delicately
bowed gold spectacles were now called into requisition
by her, for the nicer needle-work on which she specially
prided herself. Yet her eye had lost none of its
apparent keenness, and, inclining her head slightly, she
threw an inquiring glance over her spectacles at the
Doctor, who was now as composed as if the startling
news of the day had been wholly unheard.

“Eliza,” said he, “you have sometimes spoken of the
possibility of an attachment between Adaly and our
poor Reuben.”

“Yes, I have, Benjamin,” said the spinster, with an
air of confidence that seemed to imply full knowledge
of the circumstances.

“Do you see any strong indications of such attachment,
Eliza?”

“Well, really, Benjamin,” said she, — holding her

needle to the light, and bringing her spectacles to bear
upon the somewhat difficult operation (at her age) of
threading it, — “really, I think you may leave that
matter to my management.”

“The letter which I have received to-day from Mr.
Maverick alludes to a rumor of such intimacy.”

“Really!” — and the lady eyes the Doctor with a
look of keen expectation.

“Mr. Maverick,” continued the Doctor, “in referring
to the matter, speaks of the probable loss of his fortune.”

“Is it possible, brother? Loss of his fortune!”
And the spinster gives over attention to her work, while
she taps with her thimble, reflectively, upon the elbow
of her chair. “I don't think, Benjamin,” said she,
“that Reuben has committed himself in any way.”

“That is well, perhaps, Eliza; it is quite as I had
supposed.”

“And so the poor man's fortune is gone!” continued
the spinster plaintively.

“Not gone absolutely, Eliza. Maverick's language
is, that his estate is in great peril,” returned the Doctor.

“Ah!” The spinster is thoughtful and silent for a
while, during which the thimble-finger is also quiet.
“Does your friend Maverick speak approvingly of such
an attachment, brother?”

“By no means, Eliza; he condemns it in the strongest
terms.”

Miss Johns is amazed at this revelation; and having
taken off her golden-bowed spectacles, she passes them
in a nervous way, from end to end, upon the Doctor's
table.

“Benjamin,” says she presently, with a shrewd look
and her sharpest tone, “I don't think his fortune is in
any peril whatever. I think Reuben Johns is a good
match for Miss Adèle Maverick, any day.”

“Tut, tut, Eliza! we must not glorify ourselves
vainly. If Maverick disapproves, and Reuben shows
no inclination, our course is both plain and easy.”

“But I am not so sure about the inclination, Benjamin,”
said the spinster, sharply; and she replaced her
spectacles.

“If that is the case, I am very sorry,” said the
parson.

The good man had hoped that by only a partial revelation
of the contents of the letter he might divert his
sister effectually from any matrimonial schemes she
might have in hand, and so spare himself the pain of a
full disclosure. It was quite evident to him, however,
that his plan had miscarried. It was plain that the opposition
of Maverick, if unexplained, would only stimulate
the spinster to a new zeal in the furtherance of her
pet project. There was nothing for it but to lay before
her the whole disagreeable truth.

When the Doctor commenced the reading of the
letter, Miss Johns resumed her needle-work with a
resolute composure that seemed to imply, “The Johns'
view of the case has been stated; let us now listen to
what Mr. Maverick may have to say.”

For a while her fingers plied nimbly; but there
came a pause, — an exclamation of amazement, and
her work (it was a bit of embroidery for poor Adèle)
was dashed upon the floor.

“Benjamin, this is monstrous! The French hussy!
Reuben, indeed!”

The Doctor returned composedly to his reading.

“No, brother, I want to hear no more. What a
wretch this Maverick must be!”

“A sinner, doubtless, Eliza; yet not a sinner before
all others.”

The spinster was now striding up and down the room
in a state of extraordinary excitement. With a strange
inconsequence, she seized the letter from the Doctor's
hands, and read it through to the end.

“I am bewildered, Benjamin. To think that the
Johns' name should be associated with such shame and
guilt!”

“Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased,” murmured
the Doctor.

But the spinster was in no mood for listening to
Scriptural applications.

“And that he should dare to ask us to cloak for him
this great scandal!” continued she, wrathfully.

“For the child's sake, Eliza, — for poor Adaly.”

“While I am mistress of your household, brother, I
shall try to maintain its dignity and respectability. Do
you consider, Benjamin, how much these are necessary
to your influence?”

“Without doubt, Eliza; yet I cannot perceive how
these would suffer by dealing gently with this unfortunate
child. A very tender affection for her has grown
upon me, Eliza; it would sadden me grievously, if she
were to go out from among us bearing unkind
thoughts.”

“And is your affection strong enough, Benjamin, to
make you forget all social proprieties, and the honorable
name of our family, and to wish her stay here as
the wife of Reuben?”

The Doctor may have winced a little at this; and
possibly a touch of worldly pride entered into his reply.

“In this matter, Eliza, I think the wish of Maverick
is to be respected.”

“Pah! For my part, I respect much more the
Johns' name.

As the spinster retired to her room, after being overheated
in the discussion, in which the calmness of the
Doctor, and the news he had communicated, contributed
almost equally to her frenzy, she cast a look, in

passing, upon the bed-chamber of Adèle. There were
all the delicate fixtures, in which she had taken such a
motherly pride, — the spotless curtains, the cherished
vases, and certain toilet adornments, — her gifts, — by
each one of which she had hoped to win a point in the
accomplishment of her ambitious project. In the flush
of her disappointment she could almost have torn down
the neatly adjusted drapery, and put to confusion this
triumph of her housewifely skill. But cooler thoughts
succeeded; and, passing on into her own chamber, she
threw herself into her familiar rocking-chair and entered
upon a long train of reflections, whose result will
very likely have their bearing upon the development of
our story.