University of Virginia Library

54. LIV.

THE Doctor is alone in his study when Adèle comes
in upon him, and she has reached his chair and
dropped upon her knees beside him before he has time
to rise.

“New Papa, you have been so kind to me! I know
the truth now, — the mystery, the shame;” — and she
dropped her head upon his knees.

“Adaly, Adaly, my dear child!” said the old man
with a great tremor in his voice, “what does this
mean?”

She was sobbing, sobbing.

“Adaly, my child, what can I do for you?”

“Pray for me, New Papa!” and she lifted her eyes
upon him with a tender, appealing look.

“Always, always, Adaly!”

“Tell me, New Papa, — tell me honestly, — is it not
true that I can call no one mother, — that I never
could?”

The Doctor trembled: he would have given ten
years of his life to have been able to challenge her
story, to disabuse her mind of the belief which he saw

was fastened past all recall. “Adaly,” said he, “Christ
befriended the Magdalen, — how much more you, then,
if so be you are the unoffending child of” —

“I knew it! I knew it!” and she fell to sobbing
again upon the knee of the old gentleman, in a wild,
passionate way.

In such supreme moments the mind reaches its decisions
with electrical rapidity. Even as she leaned
there, her thought flashed upon that poor Madame
Arles who had so befriended her, — against whom they
had cautioned her, who had shown such intense emotion
at their first meeting, who had summoned her at the
last, and who had died with that wailing cry, “Ma fille!”
upon her lip. Yes, yes, her mother indeed, who died in
her arms! (she can never forget that death-clasp.)

She hints as much to the Doctor, who, in view of his
recent communication from Maverick, will not gainsay
her.

When she moved away at last, as if for a leave-taking,
silent and humiliated, the old man said to her,
“My child, are you not still my Adaly? God is no
respecter of persons; his ministers should be like him.”

Whereupon Adèle came and kissed him with a
warmth that reminded him of days long past.

She rejoiced in not having encountered the gray,
keen eyes of the spinster. She knew they would read
unfailingly the whole extent of the revelation that had

dawned upon her. That the spinster herself knew the
truth, and had long known it, she was sure; and she
recalled with a shudder the look of those uncanny eyes
upon the evening of their little frolic at the Elderkins'.
She dreaded the thought of ever meeting them again,
and still more the thought of listening to the stiff, cold
words of consolation which she knew she would count
it her duty to administer.

It was dusk when she left the Doctor's door; he
would have attended, but she begged to be alone. It
was an April evening, the chilliness of the earth just
yielding to the coming summer; the frogs clamorous in
all the near pools, and filling the air with the harsh
uproar of their voices; the delicate grass-blades were
just thrusting their tips through the brown web of the
old year's growth, and in sunny, close-trodden spots
showing a mat of green; while the fleecy brown blossoms
of the elm were tufting all the spray of the embowering
trees. Here and there a village loiterer
greeted her kindly. They all knew Miss Adèle.
“They will all know it to-morrow,” she thought, “and
then — then” —

With a swift but unsteady step she makes her way
to the little grave-yard; she had gone there often, and
there were those who said wantonly that she went to
say her prayers before the little cross upon the tombstone
she had placed over the grave of Madame Arles.

Now she threw herself prone upon the little hillock,
with a low, sharp cry of distress, like that of a wounded
bird, — “My mother! my mother!”

Every word, every look of tenderness which the
dead woman had lavished, she recalls now with a terrible
distinctness. Those loud, vague appeals of her
delirium come to her recollection with a meaning in
them that is only too plain; and then the tight, passionate
clasp, when, strained to her bosom, relief came
at last. Adèle lies there unconscious of the time, until
the night dews warn her away; she staggers through
the gate. Where next? She fancies they must know
it all at the Elderkins', — that she has no right there.
Is she not an estray upon the world? Shall she not
— as well first as last — wander forth, homeless as she
is, into the night? And true to these despairing
thoughts, she hurries away farther and farther from the
town. The frogs croak monotonously in all the
marshes, as if in mockery of her grief. On some near
tree an owl is hooting, with a voice that is strangely
and pitifully human. Presently an outlying farm-house
shows its cheery, hospitable light through the windowpanes,
and she is tempted to shorten her steps and steal
a look into the room where the family sits grouped
around the firelight. No such sanctuary for her ever
was or ever can be. Even the lowing of a cow in the
yard, and the answering bleat of a calf within the barn,
seem to mock the outcast.

On she passes, scarce knowing whither her hurrying
steps are bearing her, until at last she spies a low
building in the fields away upon her right, which she
knows. It is the home of that outlawed woman where
Madame Arles had died. Here at least she will be
met with sympathy, even if the truth were wholly
known; and yet perhaps last of all places would she
have it known there. She taps at the door; she has
wandered out of her way, and asks for a moment's rest.
The little boy of the house, when he has made out the
visitor by a few furtive peeps from behind the mother's
chair, comes to her fawningly and familiarly; and as
Adèle looks into his bright, fearless eyes, a new courage
seems to possess her. God's children, all of us;
and He careth even for the sparrows. She will conquer
her despairing weakness; she will accept her
cross and bear it resolutely. By slow degrees she is
won over by the frolicsome humor of the curly-pated
boy, who never once quits her side, into cheerful prattle
with him. And when at last, fairly rested, she
would set off on her return, the lone woman says she
will see her safely as far as the village street; the boy,
too, insists doggedly upon attending them; and so, with
her hand tightly clasped in the hand of the lad, Adèle
makes her way back into the town. Along the street
she passes, even under the windows of the parsonage,
with her hand still locked in that of the outlawed boy;

and she wonders if in broad day the same courage
would be meted to her? They only part when within
sight of the broad glow of light from the Elderkin windows;
and here Adèle, taking out her purse, counts out
the half of her money and places it in the hands of the
boy.

“We will share and share alike, Arthur,” said she.
“But never tell who gave you this.”

“But, Miss Maverick, it 's too much,” said the
woman.

“No, it 's not,” said the boy, clutching it eagerly.

With a parting good-night, Adèle darted within the
gate, and opened softly the door, determined to meet
courageously whatever rebuffs might be in store for
her.