University of Virginia Library

49. XLIX.

AT about the date of this interview which we have
described as having taken place beyond the seas,
— upon one of those warm days of early winter, which,
even in New England, sometimes cheat one into a feeling
of spring, — Adèle came strolling up the little path
that led from the parsonage gate to the door, twirling
her muff upon her hand, and thinking — thinking —
But who shall undertake to translate the thought of a
girl of nineteen in such moment of reverie? With the
most matter of fact of lives it would be difficult. But
in view of the experience of Adèle, and of that fateful
mystery overhanging her, — well, think for yourself,
— you who touch upon a score of years, with their
hopes, — you who have a passionate, clinging nature,
and only some austere, prim matron to whom you may
whisper your confidences, — what would you have
thought, as you twirled your muff, and sauntered up
the path to a home that was yours only by sufferance,
and yet, thus far, your only home?

The chance villagers, seeing her lithe figure, her
well - fitting pelisse, her jaunty hat, her blooming

cheeks, may have said, “There goes a fortunate one!”
But if the thought of poor Adèle took one shape more
than another, as she returned that day from a visit to
her sweet friend Rose, it was this: “How drearily unfortunate
I am!” And here a little burst of childish
laughter breaks on her ear. Adèle, turning to the
sound, sees that poor outcast woman who had been the
last and most constant attendant upon Madame Arles
coming down the street, with her little boy frolicking
beside her. Obeying an impulse she was in no mood
to resist, she turns back to the gate to greet them; she
caresses the boy; she has kindly words for the mother,
who could have worshiped her for the kiss she has
given to her outcast child.

“I likes you,” says the sturdy urchin, sidling closer to
the parsonage gate, over which Adèle leans. “You 's
like the French ooman.”

Whereupon Adèle, in the exuberance of her kindly
feelings, can only lean over and kiss the child again.

Miss Johns, looking from her chamber, is horrified.
Had it been summer, she would have lifted her window
and summoned Adèle. But she never forgot — that
exemplary woman — the proprieties of the seasons,
any more than other proprieties; she tapped upon the
glass with her thimble, and beckoned the innocent offender
into the parsonage.

“I am astonished, Adèle!” — these were her first

words; and she went on to belabor the poor girl in
fearful ways, — all the more fearful because she spoke
in the calmest possible tones. She never used others,
indeed; and it is not to be doubted that she reckoned
this forbearance among her virtues.

Adèle made no reply, — too wise now for that; but
she winced, and bit her lips severely, as the irate
spinster “gave Miss Maverick to understand that an
intercourse which might possibly be agreeable to her
French associations could never be tolerated at the
home of Dr. Johns. For herself, she had a reputation
for propriety to sustain; and while Miss Maverick
made a portion of her household, she must comply
with the rules of decorum; and if Miss Maverick were
ignorant of those rules, she had better inform herself.”

No reply, as we have said, — unless it may have been
by an impatient stamp of her little foot, which the
spinster could not perceive.

But it is the signal, in her quick, fiery nature, of a
determination to leave the parsonage, if the thing be
possible. From her chamber, where she goes only to
arrange her hair and to wipe off an angry tear or two,
she walks straight into the study of the parson.

“Doctor,” (the “New Papa” is reserved for her tenderer
or playful moments now), “are you quite sure
that papa will come for me in the spring?”

“He writes me so, Adaly. Why?”

Adèle seeks to control herself, but she cannot wholly.
“It 's not pleasant for me any longer here, New Papa,
— indeed it is not;” — and her voice breaks utterly.

“But, Adaly! — child!” says the Doctor, closing
his book.

“It 's wholly different from what it once was; it 's
irksome to Miss Eliza, — I know it is; it 's irksome to
me. I want to leave. Why does n't papa come for
me at once? Why should n't he? What is this mystery,
New Papa? Will you not tell me?” — and she
comes toward him, and lays her hand upon his shoulder
in her old winning, fond way. “Why may I not
know? Do you think I am not brave to bear whatever
must some day be known? What if my poor
mother be unworthy? I can love her! I can love
her!”

“Ah, Adaly,” said the parson, “whatever may have
been her unworthiness, it can never afflict you more; I
believe that she is in her grave, Adaly.”

Adèle sunk upon her knees, with her hands clasped
as if in prayer. Was it strange that the child should
pray for the mother she had never seen?

From the day when Maverick had declared her unworthiness,
Adèle had cherished secretly the hope of
some day meeting her, of winning her by her love, of
clasping her arms about her neck and whispering in her
ear, “God is good, and we are all God's children!”

But in her grave! Well, at least justice will be done
her then; and, calmed by this thought, Adèle is herself
once more, — earnest as ever to break away from
the scathing looks of the spinster.

The Doctor has not spoken without authority, since
Maverick, in his reply to the parson's suggestions respecting
marriage, has urged that the party was totally
unfit, to a degree of which the parson himself was a
witness, and by further hints had served fully to
identify, in the mind of the old gentleman, poor Madame
Arles with the mother of Adèle. A knowledge
of this fact had grievously wounded the Doctor; he
could not cease to recall the austerity with which he had
debarred the por woman all intercourse with Adèle
upon her sick-bed. And it seemed to him a grave
thing, wherever sin might lie, thus to alienate the
mother and daughter. His unwitting agency in the
matter had made him of late specially mindful of all
the wishes and even caprices of Adèle, — much to the
annoyance of Miss Eliza. “Adaly, my child, you are
very dear to me,” said he; and she stood by him now,
toying with those gray locks of his, in a caressing manner
which he could never know from a child of his
own, — never. “If it be your wish to change your
home for the little time that remains, it shall be. I
have your father's authority to do so.”

“Indeed I do wish it, New Papa;” — and she

dropped a kiss upon his forehead, — upon the forehead
where so few tender tokens of love had ever fallen, or
ever would fall. Yet it was very grateful to the old
gentleman, though it made him think with a sigh of
the lost ones.

The Doctor talked over the affair with Miss Eliza,
who avowed herself as eager as Adèle for a change in
her home, and suggested that Benjamin should take
counsel with his old friend, Mr Elderkin; and it is
quite possible that she shrewdly anticipated the result
of such a consultation.

Certain it is that the old Squire caught at the suggestion
in a moment.

“The very thing, Doctor! I see how it is. Miss
Eliza is getting on in years; a little irritable, possibly,
— though a most excellent person, Doctor, — most
excellent! and there being no young people in the
house, it 's a little dull for Miss Adèle, — eh, Doctor?
Grace, you know, is not with us this winter; so your
lodger shall come straight to my house, and she shall
take the room of Grace, and Rose will be delighted,
and Mrs. Elderkin will be delighted; and as for Phil,
when he happens with us, — as he does only off and on
now, — he 'll be falling in love with her, I have n't a
doubt; or, if he does n't, I shall be tempted to myself.
She 's a fine girl, eh, Doctor?”

“She 's a good Christian, I believe,” said the Doctor
gravely.

“I have n't a doubt of it,” said the Squire; “and I
hope that a bit of a dance about Christmas time, if we
should fall into that wickedness, would n't harm her on
that score, — eh, Doctor?”

“I should wish, Mr. Elderkin, that she maintain her
usual propriety of conduct, until she is again in her
father's charge.”

“Well, well, Doctor, you shall talk with Mrs. Elderkin
of that matter.”

So, it is all arranged. Miss Johns expresses a quiet
gratification at the result, and — it is specially agreeable
to her to feel that the responsibility of giving
shelter and countenance to Miss Maverick is now
shared by so influential a family as that of the Elderkins.
Rose is overjoyed, and can hardly do enough to
make the new home agreeable to Adèle; while the
mistress of the house — mild, and cheerful, and sunny,
diffusing content every evening over the little circle
around her hearth — wins Adèle to a new cheer. Yet
it is a cheer that is tempered by many sad thoughts of
her own loneliness, and of her alienation from any
motherly smiles and greetings that are truly hers.

Phil is away at her coming; but a week after he
bursts into the house on a snowy December night,
and there is a great stamping in the hall, and a
little grandchild of the house pipes from the half-opened
door, “It 's Uncle Phil!” and there is a loud

smack upon the cheek of Rose, who runs to give him
welcome, and a hearty, honest grapple with the hand
of the old Squire, and then another kiss upon the
cheek of the old mother, who meets him before he is
fairly in the room, — a kiss upon her cheek, and
another, and another. Phil loves the old lady with an
honest warmth that kindles the admiration of poor
Adèle, who, amid all this demonstration of family affection,
feels herself more cruelly than ever a stranger in
the household, — a stranger, indeed, to the interior and
private joys of any household.

Yet such enthusiasm is, somehow, contagious; and
when Phil meets Adèle with a shake of the hand and a
hearty greeting, she returns it with an out-spoken,
homely warmth, at thought of which she finds herself
blushing a moment after. To tell truth, Phil is rather
a fine-looking fellow at this time, — strong, manly,
with a comfortable assurance of manner, — a face
beaming with bonhomie, cheeks glowing with that sharp
December drive, and a wild, glad sparkle in his eye, as
Rose whispers him that Adèle has become one of the
household. It is no wonder, perhaps, that the latter
finds the bit of embroidery she is upon somewhat perplexing,
so that she has to consult Rose pretty often in
regard to the different shades, and twirl the worsteds
over and over, until confusion about the colors shall
restore her own equanimity. Phil, meantime, dashes

on, in his own open, frank way, about his drive, and the
state of the ice in the river, and some shipments he
had made from New York to Porto Rico, — on capital
terms, too.

“And did you see much of Reuben?” asks Mrs.
Elderkin.

“Not much;” and Phil (glancing that way) sees that
Adèle is studying her crimsons; “but he tells me he
is doing splendidly in some business venture to the
Mediterranean with Brindlock; he could hardly talk
of any thing else. It 's odd to find him so wrapped up
in money-making.”

“I hope he 'll not be wrapped up in any thing
worse,” said Mrs. Elderkin, with a sigh.

“Nonsense, mother!” burst in the old Squire;
“Reuben 'll come out all right yet.”

“He says he means to know all sides of the world,
now,” says Phil, with a little laugh.

“He 's not so bad as he pretends to be, Phil,” answered
the Squire. “I knew the Major's hot ways; so
did you, Grace (turning to the wife). It 's a boy's talk.
There 's good blood in him.”

And the two girls, — yonder, the other side of the
hearth, — Adèle and Rose, have given over their little
earnest comparison of views about the colors, and sit
stitching, and stitching, and thinking — and thinking
—