University of Virginia Library

55. LV.

ROSE has detailed the story of the occurrence, with
the innocent curiosity of girlhood, to the Squire
and Mrs. Elderkin (Phil being just now away). The
Squire, as he hears it, has passed a significant look
across to Mrs. Elderkin.

“It 's very queer, is n't it?” asked Rose.

“Very,” said the Squire, who had for some time
cherished suspicions of certain awkward relations existing
between Maverick and the mother of Adèle,
but never so decided as this story would seem to warrant.
“And what said Adèle?” continued he.

“It disturbed her, I think, papa; she did n't seem
at all herself.”

“Rose, my dear,” said the kindly old gentleman,
“there is some unlucky family difference between Mr.
and Mrs. Maverick, and I dare say the talk was unpleasant
to Adèle; if I were you, I would n't allude
to it again; don't mention it, please, Rose.”

If it could be possible, good Mrs. Elderkin greeted
Adèle as she came in more warmly than ever. “You
must be careful, my dear, of these first spring days of
ours; you are late to-night.”

“Yes,” says Adèle, “I was gone longer than I
thought. I rambled off to the churchyard, and I have
been at the Doctor's.”

Again the old people exchanged glances.

Why does she find herself watching their looks so
curiously? Yet there is nothing but kindness in them.
She is glad Phil is not there.

The next morning the Squire stepped over at an
early hour to the parsonage, and by an adroit question
or two, which the good Doctor had neither the art nor
the disposition to evade, unriddled the whole truth
with respect to the parentage of Adèle. The Doctor
also advised him of the delusion of the poor girl with
respect to Madame Arles, and how he had considered
it unwise to attempt any explanation until he should
hear further from Mr. Maverick, whose recent letter
he counted it his duty to lay before Mr. Elderkin.

“It 's a sad business,” said he.

And the Doctor, — “The way of the wicked is as
darkness; they know not at what they stumble.”

The Squire walks home in a brown study. Like
all the rest, he has been charmed with the liveliness
and grace of Adèle; over and over he has said to his
boy, “How fares it, Phil? Why, at your age, my boy,
I should have had her in the toils long ago.”

Since her domestication under his own roof, the
old gentleman's liking for her had grown tenfold

strong; he had familiarized himself with the idea of
counting her one of his own flock. But, the child of
a French —

“Well, well, we will see what the old lady may say,”
reflected he. And he took the first private occasion
to lay the matter before Mrs. Elderkin.

“Well, mother, the suspicions of last night are all
true, — true as a book.”

“God help the poor child, then!” said Madam,
holding up her hands.

“Of course He 'll do that, wife. But what say you
to Phil's marriage now? Does it look as tempting as
it did?”

The old lady reflected a moment, lifting her hand to
smooth the hair upon her temple, as if in aid of her
thought, then said, — “Giles, you know the world
better than I; you know best what may be well for the
boy. I love Adèle very much; I do not believe that I
should love her any less if she were the wife of Phil.
But you know best, Giles; you must decide.”

“There 's a good woman!” said the Squire; and
he stayed his pace up and down the room to lay his
hand approvingly upon the head of the old lady, touching
as tenderly those gray locks as ever he had done
in earlier years the ripples of golden brown.

In a few days Phil returns, — blithe, hopeful, winsome
as ever. He is puzzled, however, by the grave

manner of the Squire, when he takes him aside, after
the first hearty greetings, and says, “Phil, my lad,
how fares it with the love-matter? Have things come
to a crisis, — eh?”

“What do you mean, father?” and Phil blushes like
a boy of ten.

“I mean to ask, Philip,” said the old gentleman,
measuredly, “if you have made any positive declaration
to Miss Maverick.”

“Not yet,” said Phil, with a modest frankness.

“Very good, my son, very good. And now, Phil, I
would wait a little, — take time for reflection; don't
do any thing rashly. It 's an important step to take.”

“But, father,” says Phil, puzzled by the old gentleman's
manner, “what does this mean?”

“Philip,” said the Squire, with a seriousness that
seemed almost comical by its excess, “would you really
marry Adèle?”

“To-morrow, if I could,” said Phil.

“Tut, tut, Phil! It 's the old hot blood in him!”
(He says this, as if to himself.) “Philip, I would n't
do so, my boy.”

And thereupon he gives him in his way a story of
the revelations of the last few days.

At the first, Phil is disposed to an indignant denial,
as if by no possibility any indignity could attach to the
name or associations of Adèle. But in the whirl of

his feeling he remembered that interview with Reuben,
and his boast that Phil could not affront the conventionalities
of the world. It confirmed the truth to him
in a moment. Reuben then had known the whole,
and had been disinterestedly generous. Should he be
any less so?

“Well, father,” said Phil, after a minute or two of
silence, “I don't think the story changes my mind one
whit. I would marry her to-morrow, if I could,” and
he looked the Squire fairly and squarely in the face.

“Gad, boy,” said the old gentleman, “you must love
her as I loved your mother!”

“I hope I do,” said Phil, — “that is if I win her. I
don't think she 's to be had for the asking.”

“Aha! the pinch lies there, eh?” said the Squire,
and he said it in better humor than he would have
said it ten days before. “What 's the trouble,
Philip?”

“Well, sir, I think she always had a tenderness for
Reuben; I think she loves him now in her heart.”

“So, so! The wind lies there, eh? Well, let it
bide, my boy; let it bide awhile. We shall know
something more of the matter soon.”

And there the discourse of the Squire ended.

Meantime, however, Rose and Adèle are having a
little private interview above stairs, which in its subject-matter
is not wholly unrelated to the same theme.

“Rose,” Adèle had said, as she fondled her in her
winning way, “your brother Phil has been very kind
to me.”

“He always meant to be,” said Rose, with a charming
glow upon her face.

“He always has been,” said Adèle; “but, dear Rose,
I know I can talk as plainly to you as to another self
almost.”

“You can, — you can, Ady,” said she.

“I have thought,” continued Adèle, “though I know
it is very unmaidenly in me to say it, that Phil was
disposed sometimes to talk even more warmly than he
has ever talked, and to ask me to be a nearer friend to
him even than you, dear Rose. May be it is only my
own vanity that leads me sometimes to suspect this.”

“Oh, I hope it may be true!” burst forth Rose.

“I hope not,” said Adèle, with a voice so gravely
earnest that Rose shuddered.

“O Ady, you don't mean it! you who are so good,
so kind! Phil's heart will break.”

“I don't think that,” said Adèle, with a faint hard
smile, in which her womanly vanity struggled with her
resolution. “And whatever might have been, that
which I have hinted at must not be now, dear Rose.
You will know some day why — why it would be ungrateful
in me to determine otherwise. Promise me,
darling, that you will discourage any inclination toward

it, wherever you can best do so. Promise me, dear
Rose!”

“Do you really, truly mean it?” said the other, with
a disappointment she but poorly concealed.

“With all my heart, I do,” said Adèle.

And Rose promised, while she threw herself upon
the neck of Adèle and said, “I am so sorry! It will
be such a blow to poor Phil!”

After this, things went on very much in their old
way. To the great relief of Adèle there was no explosive
village demonstration of the news which had come
home so cruelly to herself. The Doctor had given an
admonition to the young minister, and the old Squire
had told him, in a pointed and confidential way, that he
had heard of his inquiries and assertions with respect
to Mr. Maverick, and begged to hint that the relations
between the father and mother of Adèle were not of
the happiest, and it was quite possible that Mr. Maverick
had assumed latterly the name of a bachelor; it
was not, however, a very profitable subject of speculation
or of gossip, and if he valued the favor of the
young ladies he would forbear all allusion to it. A
suggestion which Mr. Catesby was not slow to accept
religiously, and scrupulously to bear in mind.

Phil was as hot a lover as ever, though for a time a
little more distant: and the poor fellow remarked a
new timidity and reserve about Adèle, which, so far

from abating, only fed the flame; and there is no
knowing to what reach it might have blazed out, if a
trifling little circumstance had not paralyzed his zeal.

From time to time, Phil had been used to bring
home a rare flower or two as a gift for Adèle, which
Rose had always lovingly arranged in some coquettish
fashion, either upon the bosom or in the hair of Adèle;
but a new and late gift of this kind — a little tuft of
the trailing arbutus which he has clambered over miles
of woodland to secure — is not worn by Adèle, but by
Rose, who glances into the astounded face of Phil with
a pretty, demure look of penitence.

“I say, Rose,” says he, seizing his chance for a private
word, — “that 's not for you.”

“I know it, Phil; Adèle gave it to me.”

“And that 's her favorite flower.”

“Yes, Phil,” and there is a shake in her voice now.
“I think she 's grown tired of such gifts, Phil;” —
whereat she glances keenly and pitifully at him.

“Truly, Rose?” says Phil, with the color on a sudden
quitting his cheeks.

“Truly, — truly, Phil,” — and in spite of herself the
pretty hazel eyes are brimming full, and, under pretence
of some household duty, she dashes away. For
a moment Phil stands confounded. Then, through his
set teeth, he growls, “I was a fool not to have known
it!”

But Phil was not a fool, but a sturdy, brave-hearted
fellow, who bore whatever blows fortune gave him, or
seemed to give, with a courage that had a fine elastic
temper in it. He may have made his business engagements
at the river or in the city a little more frequent
and prolonged after this; but always there was the
same deferential show of tender feeling toward his
father's guest, whenever he happened in Ashfield. Indeed,
he felt immensely comforted by a little report
which Rose made to him in her most despairing manner.
Adèle had told her that she “would never, never
marry.”

There are a great many mothers of fine families who
have made such a speech at twenty or thereabout; and
Phil knew it.