University of Virginia Library

44. XLIV.

ABOUT this time, Phil Elderkin had come back
from his trip to the West Indies, — not a little
bronzed by the fierce suns he had met there, but stalwart
as ever, with his old free, frank manner, to which
he had superadded a little of that easy confidence and
self-poise which come of wide intercourse with the
world. All the village greeted him kindly; for there
was not a man or a woman in it who bore Phil Elderkin
a grudge, — unless it may have been the schoolmaster,
who, knowing what a dullard Phil had been at
his books, had to bear some measure of the reproach
which belonged to his slow progress. But there are
some young gentlemen (not, however, so many as dull
fellows are apt to think) who ripen best by a reading
of the world, instead of books; and Phil Elderkin was
eminently one of them. The old Squire took a pride
he had never anticipated in walking down the street
arm in arm with his stalwart son, (whose support, indeed,
the old gentleman was beginning to need,) and
in watching the admiring glances of the passers-by,
and of such old cronies as stopped to shake hands and

pass a word or two with the Squire's youngest boy.
There is this pleasant feature about such quiet, out-of-the-way
New England towns, (or was twenty-five years
since,) that the old people never forget to feel a pride
in the young men, who, having gone out from their borders
to try their fortunes, win any measure of success.
Of course they are apt to attribute it, with a pleasant
vanity, to their own good advice or example; but this
by no means detracts from the cordiality of their
praises. Phil won all this, — since it was hinted, on
the best possible authority, that he had tried certain
business chances on his own account in the West Indies,
which promised the grandest success.

Even the Doctor had said, “You have reason to be
proud of your boy, Squire. I trust that in time he
may join piety to prudence.”

“Hope he may, hope he may, Doctor,” said the
Squire. “Fine stout lad, is n't he, Doctor?”

Of course Phil had met early with Reuben, and with
the fresh spirit of their old school-days. Phil had very
likely been advised of the experiences which had
brought Reuben again to Ashfield, and of the questionable
result, — for even this had become subject of
village gossip; but of such matters there was very coy
mention on the part of young Elderkin. Phil's world-knowledge
had given him wise hints on this score.
And as for Reuben, the encounter with such frank, outspoken

heartiness and manliness as belonged to his old
school-friend was, after his weary mental struggle of
the last few months, immensely refreshing.

“Phil, my good fellow, your coming is a great godsend
to me. I 've been worrying at the theologies
here; but it 's blind work. I think I shall get back to
business again.”

“But you have n't made it blind for Adèle, Reuben,
— so they tell me.”

“And it is true. Faith, Phil, if I could win her
beautiful trust I would give my right arm, — indeed, I
would.”

“But she 's not blue,” said Phil; “she 's as cheery
and mirthful as I ever saw her.”

“There 's the beauty of it,” said Reuben. “Many
women carry their faith with a face as long and as dull
as a sermon. But, by Jove, her face bubbles over with
laughter as easily as it ever did.”

Sister Rose had, of course, met Phil on his return
most gushingly. There is something very beautiful in
that warm sisterly affection which at a certain age can
put no bounds to its admiring pride. There is a fading
away of it as the years progress, and as the sisters
drop into little private clamorous circles of their own,
and look out upon other people through the spectacles
of their husband's eyes, — as they are pretty apt to do;
but for a long period following upon the school age it

is very tender and beautiful. If Phil had been coarse,
or selfish, or awkward, or ten times the sinner in any
way that he was, Rose would most surely have found
some charming little excuse for each and every sin, and
delighted in reflecting upon him the glow of her own
purity.

Of course she insists coyly upon his making the village
rounds with her. Those intellectual ladies, the
Misses Hapgood, must have an opportunity of admiring
his grand air, and the easy manner he has brought
back with him of entering a parlor, or of passing the
compliments of the day: and, indeed, those respectable
old ladies do pay him the honor of keeping him in
waiting, until they can arrange their best frontlets, and
present themselves in their black silks and in kerchiefs
wet with lavender. Little Rose maintains an admiring
and eager silence while that rare brother astonishes
these good Ashfield ladies with the great splendors of
his walk and conversation.

Then with what a bewildering success the traveler,
under convoy of the delighted Rose, comes down upon
the family of the Tourtelots! What an elaborate toilet
Almira matures for his reception! and how the Dame
nervously dusts and redusts her bombazine at sight of
his grand manner, as she peeps through the half-opened
blinds!

The Deacon is not, indeed, so much “taken off

the hooks” by Phil, but entertains him in the old
way.

“Pooty well on 't for beef cattle in Cuby, Philip?”

And Rose's eyes glisten, as Brother Philip goes on
to set forth some of the wonders of the crops, and the
culture.

“Waäl, they 're smart farmers, I 've heerd,” says the
Deacon; “but we 're makin' improvements here in
Ashfield. Doän't know as you 've seen Square Wilkinson's
new string o' wall he 's been a-buildin' all the
way between his home pastur' and the west medders?”

Phil has not.

“Waäl, it 's wuth seein'. I doän't know what they
pretend to have in Cuby; but in my opinion, there a'n't
such another string o' stone fence, not in the whole
caounty!”

And Phil has had his little private talks with Rose,
— about Adèle, among other people.

“She is more charming than ever,” Rose had said.

“I suppose so.”

And there had been a pause here.

“I suppose Reuben is as tender upon her as ever,”
Phil had said at last, in his off-hand way.

“He has been very devoted; but I 'm not sure that
it means any thing, Phil, dear.”

“I should think it meant a great deal,” said Phil.

“I mean,” continued Rose, reflectingly, and with
some embarrassment of speech, “I don't think Adèle
speaks of Reuben as if — as I should — think” —

“As you would, Rose, — is that it?”

“For shame, Phil!”

And Phil begged pardon with a kiss.

“Do you think, Phil,” said Rose, concealing a little
fluttering of the heart under very smoothly spoken
words, “do you think that Reuben really loves Adèle?”

“Think so? To be sure, Rose. How can he help
it? It 's enough for me to see her as I do, odd whiles
in our parlor, or walking up and down the garden with
you, Rose; if I were to meet her every night and
morning, as Reuben must, I should go mad.”

“Aha!” said Rose, laughingly; “that 's not the
way lovers talk, — at least, not in books. I think you
are safe, Phil. And yet” (with a soberer air) “I did
think, Phil, one while, that you thought very, very
often, and a great deal, of Adèle; and I was not
sorry.”

“Did you, Rose?” said Phil, eagerly; “did you
truly? Then I 'll tell you a secret, Rose, — mind,
Rose, a great secret, never to be lisped, — not to
mother even. I did love Adèle as far back as I can
remember. You know the strange little French hat
she used to wear? Well, I used to draw it on my slate
at school, Rose; it was all I could draw that belonged

to her. Many 's the time, when, if a boy came near,
I would dash in some little flourishes about it, and call
it a basket or a coal-scoop; but all the while, for me,
her little dark eyes were shining under it. But there
was Reuben, — I told him I thought Suke Boody the
prettiest girl in Ashfield, but it was n't true, — and
he beat me in reading and writing, and every thing, I
think, but fisticuffs.”

“Did he?” said Rose, with the prettily arched brow
which mostly accompanied only her mischievous sallies;
and it seemed to Phil afterwards that she would have
resented the statement, if he had made it concerning
any other young fellow in Ashfield.

“Yes, indeed,” continued he. “I knew he must
beat me out and out with Adèle. Do you remember,
Rose, how you told me once that he had sent a gift
of furs to her? Well, Rose, I had my own little gift
hidden away for her for that same New-Year's Day,
and I burned it. Those furs kept me awake an awful
time. And when I went away, Rose, I prayed that I
might learn to forget her; but there was never a letter
of yours that came with her name in it, (and most
of them had it, you know,) but I saw her as plainly
as ever, with her arm laced in yours, as I used to see
you many a time from my window, strolling down the
garden. And now that I have come back, Rose, it 's
the same confounded thing. By Jove, I feel as if I

could pitch into Reuben, as I used to do at school.
But then he 's a good fellow, and a good friend of
mine, I 'm sure.”

“I 'm sure he is,” said Rose. “But, Phil,” continued
she, meditatively, “it seems to me, if I were a
man, and loved a woman as you love Adèle, I should
find some way of letting her know it.”

“Would you, Rosy? Do you think there 's a ghost
of a chance?”

“I don't know, Phil: Adèle is not one who talks of
such things.”

“Nor you, I think, Rose.”

“Of course not, Phil.” And after a little hesitation,
“Of whom should I talk, pray?”

Now it happened that this private conversation took
place upon the same day on which had transpired the
interview we have already chronicled between the
Doctor and Miss Johns. Reuben and Adèle were to
pass the evening at the Elderkins'. Adèle was not
of a temper to be greatly disturbed by the rumor at
which the Doctor had hinted of a lost fortune. (We
write, it must be remembered, of a time nearly thirty
years gone by.) Indeed, as she tripped along beside
Reuben, it seemed to him that she had never been in
a more jocular and vivacious humor. A reason for this
(and it is what, possibly, many of our readers may
count a very unnatural one) lay in the letter which

she had that day received from her father, in which
Maverick, in alluding to a possible affaire du cœur in
connection with Reuben, had counseled her, with
great earnestness, to hold her affections in reserve,
and, above all, to control most rigidly any fancy which
she might entertain for the son of their friend the
Doctor.

It amused Adèle; for Reuben had been so totally
undemonstrative in matters of sentiment, (possibly
keeping his deeper feelings in reserve,) that Adèle
had felt over and over a girl's mischievous propensity
to provoke it. Not that she was in any sense heartless;
not that she did not esteem him, and feel a
keen sense of gratitude; but his kindest and largest
favors were always attended with such demureness and
reticence of manner as piqued her womanly vanity.
For these reasons there was something exhilarating
to her in the intimation conveyed by Maverick's letters,
that she was the party, after all, upon whose decision
must rest the peace of mind of the two, and that she
must cultivate the virtue of treating him with coolness.

Possibly it would have been an easy virtue to cultivate,
even though Reuben's attentions had shown the
warmth which the blood of nineteen feminine years
craves in a lover; but as the matter stood, there was
something amusing to her in Maverick's injunction.
As if there were any danger! As if there could be!

Should it grow serious some day, it would be time
enough then to consider her good papa's injunction;
very possibly she would pay the utmost heed to it,
since a respect for Mr. Maverick's opinions and advice
was almost a part of Adèle's religion.