University of Virginia Library

48. XLVIII.

IT was in no way possible for the simple-hearted Doctor
to conceal from the astute spinster the particular
circumstances which had hurried Reuben's departure,
and the knowledge of them made her humiliation complete.
During all the latter months of Reuben's stay
she had not scrupled to drop occasional praises of him
in the ear of Adèle, as in the old times. It was in
agreement with her rigid notions of retribution, that
this poor social outlaw should love vainly; and a
baffling disappointment would have seemed to the
spinster's narrow mind a highly proper and most logical
result of the terrible ignominy which overhung
the unconscious victim. Indeed, the innocent unconsciousness
of any thing derogatory to her name or
character which belonged to Adèle, and her consequent
cheery mirthfulness, were sources of infinite annoyance
to Miss Eliza. She would have liked to see her
in sackcloth for a while, and to enjoy her own moral
elevation by such a contrast. Nor was this from sheer
malice; in that sense she was not malicious; but she
deluded herself with the idea that this was a high

religious view of sin and its consequences, — a proper
mortification to befall one on whom Heaven's punishment
(of the fathers through the children) must needs
descend. And like many another of her iron purpose,
she would not have shrunk from being herself the
instrument of such punishment, and would have gloated
over its accomplishment, — as if by it the Devil's
devices had received rebuke, and the elect found cause
for comfort. Many good people — as the world goes
— have this vulture appetite for preying upon the very
bowels of sinners; and there is no judge so implacable
as one who inflames his judicial zeal with the fiery
heats of an exaggerated religious pretension.

Think, then, of the situation of poor Adèle under
the attentions of such a woman, after she has ferreted
out from the Doctor the truth with respect to Reuben!
It makes us tremble while we write of it. There is
often a kind of moral tyranny in households, which,
without ever a loud word, much less a blow, can pierce
a sensitive mind as with fiery needles. Of such a
silent, fearful tyranny Adèle now felt the innumerable
stings, and under it her natural exuberance of spirits
gave way, her faith almost waned; it seemed to her
that a kiss upon her silent crucifix were better than
a prayer shared with her tormentor.

The Doctor showed all his old, grave kindness; but
he was sadly broken by his anxieties with respect to

his son; nor was he ever demonstrative enough to
supply the craving of Adèle's heart, under her present
greed for sympathy. Even the villagers looked upon
her more coldly since the sharpened speech of the
spinster had dropped widely, but very quietly, its
damaging innuendoes, and since her well-calculated
surmises, that French blood was, after all, not to be
wholly trusted. It was clear to the towns-people that
all was at an end between Adèle and Reuben, — clear
that she had fallen away from the old favor in which
she once stood at the parsonage; and Miss Eliza, by
her adroit hints, and without any palpable violation
of truth, found means of associating these results
with certain suspicious circumstances which had come
to light respecting the poor girl's character, — circumstances
for which she herself (Miss Eliza was kind
enough to say) was not altogether accountable, perhaps,
but yet sufficient to warrant a little reserve of
confidence, and of course putting an end to any thought
of intimate alliance with “the Johns family.” She
even whispered in her most insidious manner into the
ear of old Mistress Tew, — who, being somewhat deaf,
is the most inveterate village gossip, — that “it was
hard for the poor thing, when Reuben left so suddenly.”

Adèle writes in these times to her father, that he
need put himself in no fear in regard to marriage.

“I have had an éclaircissement” (she says) “with
friend Reuben. His declaration of attachment (I
think I may tell you this, dear papa) was so wholly
unexpected that I could not count it real. He seemed
actuated by some sudden controlling sympathy (as he
often is) that I could not explain; and had it been
otherwise, your injunction, dear papa, and the fact
that he has become a bitter skeptic in regard to our
most holy religion, would have made me pause. He
dropped a hint, too, of the mystery attaching to my
family, (not unkindly, for he is, after all, a dear, goodhearted
fellow,) which kindled not a little indignation
in me; and I told him — with some of the pride, I
think, I must have inherited from you, papa — that,
until that mystery was cleared, I would marry neither
him nor another. Was I not right?

“I want so much to be with you again, dear papa, —
to tell you all I hope and fear, — to feel your kiss
again! Miss Johns, whom I have tried hard to love,
but cannot, is changed wofully in her manner toward
me. I feel it is only my home now by sufferance, —
not such a home as you would choose for me, I am
sure. The Doctor — good soul — is as kind as he
knows how to be, but I want — oh, how I want! — to
leap into your arms, dear papa, and find home there.
Why can I not? I am sure — over and over sure —
that I could bring some sunlight into a home of yours,

if you would but let me. And when you come, as
you say you mean to do soon, do not put me off with
such stories as you once told me, of `a lean Savoyard
in red wig and spectacles, and of a fat Frenchman
with bristly mustache' (you see I remember all);
tell me I may come to be the mistress of your parlor
and your salon, and I will keep all in such order, that,
I am sure, you will not want me to leave you again;
and you will love me so much that I shall never want
to leave you.

“Indeed, indeed, it is very wearisome to me here.
The village people seem all of them to have caught
the coolness of Miss Johns, and look askance at me.
Only the Elderkins show their old kindness, and it is
unfailing. Do not, I pray, disturb yourself about
any `lost fortune' of which you wrote to the Doctor,
but never — cruel papa! — a word to me. I am rich:
I can't tell you how many dollars are in the Savings
Bank for me, — and for you, if you wish them, I have
so little occasion to spend any thing. But I have committed
the extravagance of placing a beautiful tablet
over the grave of poor Madame Arles, and, much to
the horror of the good Doctor, insisted upon having
a little cross inscribed upon its front. You have never
told me, dear papa, if you received the long account
I gave you of her sudden death, and how she died
without ever telling me any thing of herself, — though
I believe it was in her mind to do so, at the last.”

No, of a truth, such letter had never been received
by Maverick, and he cursed the mails royally for it,
since it might have prevented the need of any such disclosure
as he had made to his friend Johns. When the
present missive of Adèle came to him, he was entering
the brilliant Café de L'Orient at Marseillers, in company
with his friend Papiol. The news staggered him
for a moment.

“Papiol!” said he, “mon ami, Julie is dead!”

“Parbleu! And among your Puritans, yonder?
She must have made a piquant story of it all!”

“Not a word, Papiol! She has kept by her promise
bravely.”

“Tant mieux: it will give you good appetite, mon
ami.”

For a moment the better nature of Maverick had
been roused, and he turned a look of loathing upon the
complacent Frenchman seated by him (which fortunately
the stolid Papiol did not comprehend). For a
moment, his thought ran back to a sunny hill-side near
to the old town of Arles, where lines of stunted, tawny
olives crept down the fields, — where fig-trees showed
their purple nodules of fruit, — where a bright-faced
young peasant-girl, with a gay kerchief turbaned about
her head with a coquettish tie, lay basking in the sunshine.
He heard once more the trip of her voice
warbling a Provençal song, while the great ruin of the

Roman arène came once more to his vision, with its
tufting shrubs and battered arches rising grim and
gaunt into the soft Southern sky; the church-bells of
the town poured their sweet jangle on his ear again,
the murmur of distant voices came floating down the
wind, and again the pretty Provençal song fluttered on
the balmy air; the coquettish turban was in his eye,
the plump, soft hand of the pretty Provençal girl in his
grasp, and her glossy locks touched his burning cheek.
So much, at least, that was Arcadian; and then (in his
glowing memory still) the loves, the jealousies, the
delusions, the concealments, the faithlessness, the desertion,
the parting! And now, — now the chief actress
in this drama that had touched him so nearly lay
buried in a New England grave, with his own Adèle
her solitary mourner!

“It was your friend the Doctor who gave the good
woman absolution, I suppose,” said Papiol, tapping his
snuff-box, and gathering a huge pinch between thumb
and finger.

“Not even that comfort, I suspect,” said Maverick.

“Bah! pauvre femme!”

And the philosopher titillated his nostril until he
sneezed again and again.

“And the Doctor,” continued Papiol, — “does he
suspect nothing?”

“Nothing. He has counselled me to make what
amends I may by marrying — you know whom.”

“Pardieu! he is a good innocent, that old friend of
yours!”

“Better than you or I, Papiol.”

“Cela va sans dire, mon ami. And la petite, — the
little bright-eyes, — what of her?”

“She is unsuspicious, but hints at a little cloud that
overshadows her domestic history, and tells her lover
that it shall be cleared up before she will marry him,
or any other.”

“Ta, ta! It 's an inquisitive sex, Maverick! I
could never quite understand how Julie should have
learned that her little one was still alive, and been able
to trace her as she did. I think the death was set
forth in the “Gazette,” — eh, Maverick?”

“It certainly was,” said Maverick, — “honestly, for
the child's good.”

“Ha! — honestly, — bon! I beg pardon, mon ami.”

And Papiol took snuff again.

“Set forth in the “Gazette,” en règle, and came to
Julie's knowledge, as I am sure; and she sailed for the
East with her brother, who was a small trader in
Smyrna, I believe, — poor woman! To tell truth, Papiol,
had she been alive, loving Adèle as I do, I believe
I should have been tempted to follow the parson's admonition,
cost what it might.”

“And then?”

“And then I should give petite an honest name to

bear, — honest as I could, at least; and would have
lavished wealth upon her, as I mean to do; and made
the last half of my life better than the first.”

“Excellent! most excellent! considering that the lady
is dead, pauvre femme! And now, my dear fellow, you
might go over to your country and play the good Puritan
by marrying Mees Eliza, — hein?”

And he called out obstreperously, —

“Garçon!”

“Voici, Messieurs!”

“Absinthe, — deux verres.”

And he drummed with his fat fingers upon the edge
of the marble slab.

“Mon Dieu!” said Maverick, with a sudden pallor
on his face, “who is she?”

The eyes of Papiol fastened upon the figure which
had arrested the attention of Maverick, — a lady of,
may be, forty years, fashionably and gracefully attired,
with olive-brown complexion, hair still glossy black,
and attended by a strange gentleman with a brusk
and foreign air.

“Who is she?” says Maverick, in a great tremor.
“Do the dead come to haunt us?”

“You are facetious, my friend,” said Papiol.

But in the next moment the lady opposite had raised
her eyes, showing that strange double look which had
been so characteristic of Madame Arles, and poor Papiol
was himself fearfully distraught.

“It 's true! it 's true, mon ami!” he whispered his
friend. “It 's Julie! — elle même, — Julie!”

Maverick, too, had met that glance, and he trembled
like a leaf. He gazed upon the stranger like one who
sees a specter. And she met his glance, boldly at the
first; then the light faded from her eyes, her head
drooped, and she fell in a swoon upon the shoulder of
her companion.