University of Virginia Library

52. LII.

IN the early spring of 1842, — we are not quite sure
of the date, but it was at any rate shortly after the
establishment of the Reverend Theophilus Catesby at
Ashfield, — the Doctor was in the receipt of a new
letter from his friend Maverick, which set all his old
calculations adrift. It was not Madame Arles, after
all, who was the mother of Adèle; and the poor gentleman
found that he had wasted a great deal of
needless sympathy in that direction. But we shall
give the details of the news more succinctly and
straightforwardly by laying before our readers some
portions of Maverick's letter.

“I find, my dear Johns,” he writes, “that my suspicions
in regard to a matter of which I wrote you
very fully in my last were wholly untrue. How I
could have been so deceived, I cannot even now fairly
explain; but nothing is more certain, than that the
person calling herself Madame Arles (since dead, as
I learn from Adèle) was not the mother of my child.
My mistake in this will the more surprise you, when I
state that I had a glimpse of this personage (unknown

to you) upon my visit to America; and though it was
but a passing glimpse, it seemed to me — though many
years had gone by since my last sight of her — that
I could have sworn to her identity. And coupling this
resemblance, as I very naturally did, with her devotion
to my poor Adèle, I could form but one conclusion.

“The mother of my child, however, still lives. I
have seen her. You will commiserate me in advance
with the thought that I have found her among the
vile ones of what you count this vile land. But you
are wrong, my dear Johns. So far as appearance
and present conduct go, no more reputable lady ever
crossed your own threshold. The meeting was accidental,
but the recognition on both sides absolute, and,
on the part of the lady, so emotional as to draw the
attention of the habitués of the café where I chanced
to be dining. Her manner and bearing, indeed, were
such as to provoke me to a renewal of our old acquaintance,
with honorable intentions, — even independent
of those suggestions of duty to herself and
to Adèle which you have urged.

“But I have to give you, my dear Johns, a new surprise.
All overtures of my own toward a renewal of
acquaintance have been decisively repulsed. I learn
that she has been living for the past fifteen years or
more with her brother, now a wealthy merchant of

Smyrna, and that she has a reputation there as a dévote,
and is widely known for the charities which her
brother's means place within her reach. It would
thus seem that even this French woman, contrary to
your old theory, is atoning for an early sin by a life
of penance.

“And now, my dear Johns, I have to confess to you
another deceit of mine. This woman — Julie Chalet
when I knew her of old, and still wearing the name —
has no knowledge that she has a child now living.
To divert all inquiry, and to insure entire alienation
of my little girl from all French ties, I caused a false
mention of the death of Adèle to be inserted in the
“Gazette” of Marseilles. I know you will be very
much shocked at this, my dear Johns, and perhaps
count it as large a sin as the grosser one; that I committed
it for the child's sake will be no excuse in your
eye, I know. You may count me as bad as you choose,
— only give me credit for the fatherly affection which
would still make the path as easy and as thornless as
I can for my poor daughter.

“If Julie, the mother of Adèle, knew to-day of her
existence, — if I should carry that information to her,
— I am sure that all her rigidities would be consumed
like flax in a flame. That method, at least, is left for
winning her to any action upon which I may determine.
Shall I use it? I ask you as one who, I am

sure, has learned to love Adèle, and who, I hope, has
not wholly given over a friendly feeling toward me.
Consider well, however, that the mother is now one
of the most rigid of Catholics; I learn that she is
even thinking of conventual life. I know her spirit
and temper well enough to be sure that, if she were
to meet the child again which she believes lost, it
would be with an impetuosity of feeling and a devotion
that would absorb every aim of her life. This
disclosure is the only one by which I could hope to
win her to any consideration of marriage; and with a
mother's rights and a mother's love, would she not
sweep away all that Protestant faith which you, for so
many years, have been laboring to build up in the
mind of my child? Whatever you may think, I do
not conceive this to be impossible; and if possible,
is it to be avoided at all hazards? Whatever I might
have owed to the mother I feel in a measure absolved
from by her rejection of all present advances. And
inasmuch as I am making you my father confessor, I
may as well tell you, my dear Johns, that no particular
self-denial would be involved in a marriage
with Mademoiselle Chalet. For myself, I am past
the age of sentiment; my fortune is now established;
neither myself nor my child can want for any luxury.
The mother, by her present associations and by the
propriety of her life, is above all suspicion; and her air
and bearing are such as would be a passport to friendly
association with refined people here or elsewhere.
You may count this a failure of Providence to fix
its punishment upon transgressors: I count it only
one of those accidents of life which are all the while
surprising us.

“There was a time when I would have had ambition
to do otherwise; but now, with my love for Adèle
established by my intercourse with her and by her
letters, I have no other aim, if I know my own heart,
than her welfare. It should be kept in mind, I think,
that the marriage spoken of, if it ever take place, will
probably involve, sooner or later, a full exposure to
Adèle of all the circumstances of her birth and history.
I say this will be involved, because I am sure
that the warm affections of Mademoiselle Chalet will
never allow of the concealment of her maternal relations,
and that her present religious perversity (if
you will excuse the word) will not admit of further
deceits. I tremble to think of the possible consequences
to Adèle, and query very much in my own
mind, if her present blissful ignorance be not better
than reunion with a mother through whom she must
learn of the ignominy of her birth. Of Adèle's fortitude
to bear such a shock, and to maintain any
elasticity of spirits under it, you can judge better
than I.

“I propose to delay action, my dear Johns, and of
course my sailing for America, until I shall hear from
you.”

Our readers can surely anticipate the tone of the
Doctor's reply. He writes: —

“Duty, Maverick, is always duty. The issues we
must leave in the hands of Providence. One sin
makes a crowd of entanglements; it is never weary
of disguises and deceits. We must come out from
them all, if we would aim at purity. From my heart's
core I shall feel whatever shock may come to poor,
innocent Adèle by reason of the light that may be
thrown upon her history; but if it be a light that
flows from the performance of Christian duty, I shall
never fear its revelations. If we had been always true,
such dark corners would never have existed to fright
us with their goblins of terror. It is never too late,
Maverick, to begin to be true.

“I find a strange comfort, too, in what you tell me
of that religious perversity of Mademoiselle Chalet
which so chafes you. I have never ceased to believe
that most of the Romish traditions are of the Devil;
but with waning years I have learned that the Divine
mysteries are beyond our comprehension, and that
we cannot map out His purposes by any human chart.
The pure faith of your child, joined to her buoyant

elasticity, — I freely confess it, — has smoothed away
the harshness of many opinions I once held.

“Maverick, do your duty. Leave the rest to
Heaven.”