University of Virginia Library

56. LVI.

WE by no means intend to represent our friend
Adèle as altogether a saint. Such creatures
are very rare, and not always the most lovable, according
to our poor human ways of thinking; but she may
possibly grow into saintship, in view of a certain sturdy
religious sense of duty that belongs to her, and a faith
that is always glowing. At present she is a high-spirited,
sensitive girl, — not without her pride and her
lesser vanities, not without an immense capacity for
loving and being loved, but just now trembling under
that shock to her sensibilities which we have detailed,
— but never fainting, never despairing. Not even relinquishing
her pride, but guarding it with triple defenses,
by her reserve in respect to Phil, as well as by
a certain new dignity of manner which has grown out
of her conflict with the opprobrium that seems to
threaten, for no fault of her own.

Adèle sees clearly now the full burden of Reuben's
proposal to cherish and guard her against whatever indignities
might threaten; she sees more clearly than
ever the rich, impulsive generosity of his nature reflected,

and it disturbs her grievously to think that she
had met it only with reproach. The thought of the
mad, wild, godless career upon which he may have entered,
and of which the village gossips are full, is hardly
more afflictive to her than her recollection of that
frank, self-sacrificing generosity, so ignobly requited.
She longs in her heart to clear the debt, — to tell him
what grateful sense she has of his intended kindness.
But how? Should she, — being what she is, — even
by a word, seem to invite a return of that devotion
which may be was but the passion of an hour, and
which it were fatal to renew? Her pride revolts at this.
And yet — and yet — so brave a generosity shall not
be wholly unacknowledged. She writes: —

“Reuben, I know now the full weight of the favor
of what you promised to bestow upon me when I so
blindly reproached you with intrusion upon my private
griefs. Forgive me, Reuben! I thank you now, late
as it is, with my whole heart. It is needless to tell you
how I came to know what, perhaps, I had better never
have known, but which must always have overhung me
as a dark cloud charged with a blasting fate. This
knowledge, dear Reuben, which separates us so surely
and so widely, relieves me of the embarrassment which
I might otherwise have felt in telling you of my lasting
gratitude, and (if as a sister I may say it) my love. If
your kind heart could so overflow with pity then, you

will surely pity me the more now; yet not too much,
Reuben, for my pride as a woman is as strong as ever.
The world was made for me, as much as it was made
for others; and if I bear its blight, I will find some
flowers yet to cherish. I do not count it altogether so
grim and odious a world, — even under the broken
light which shines upon it for me, — as in your last
visits you seemed disposed to reckon it.

“And this reminds me, Reuben, that I have told you
frankly how the cloud which overhung me has opened
with a terrible surety. How is it with the cloud that
lay upon you? Is there any light? Ah, Reuben, when
I recall those days in which long ago your faith in
something better beyond this world than lies in it
seemed to be so much stronger and firmer than mine,
and when your trust was so confident as to make mine
stronger, it seems like a strange dream to me, — all
the more when now you, who should reason more justly
than I, believe in `nothing,' (was not that your last
word?) — and yet, dear Reuben, I cling, — I cling,
Do you remember the old hymn I sung in those
days: —

Even the old Doctor, who was so troubled by the Romish
hymns, said it must have been written by a good
man.”

Much more she writes in this vein, but returns ever
and again to that noble generosity of his, — her delicacy
struggling throughout with her tender gratitude,
— yet she fails not to show a deep, earnest undercurrent
of affection, which surely might develop under
sympathy into a very fever of love. Will it not touch
the heart of Reuben? Will it not divert him from the
trail where he wanders blindly? If we have read his
character rightly, surely this letter, in which a delicate
sensibility hardly veils a great passionate wealth of
feeling, will stir him to a new and more hopeful venture.

God send that the letter may reach him safely!

For a long time Adèle has not written to Reuben,
and it occurs to her, as she strolls away toward the
village post, that to mail it herself may possibly provoke
new town gossip. In this perplexity she presently
encounters her boy friend, Arthur, who for a
handful of pennies, and under injunction of secrecy,
cheerfully undertakes the duty. To the house of the
lad's mother, far away as it was, Adèle had wandered
frequently of late, and had borne away from time to
time some trifling memento of the dead one whose
memory so endeared the spot. It happens that she
continues her stroll thither on this occasion; and the
poor woman, toward whom Adèle's charities have
flowed with a profusion that has astounded the Doctor,

repays some new gift by placing in her hands a little
embroidered kerchief, “too fine for such as she,” which
had belonged to Madame Arles. A flimsy bit of muslin
daintily embroidered; but there is a name stitched
upon its corner, for which Adèle treasures it past all
reckoning, — the name of Julie Chalet.

It was as if the dead one had suddenly come back
and whispered it in her ear, — Julie Chalet. The
spring birds sung the name in chorus as she walked
home; and on the grave-stone, under the cross, she
seemed to see it cut upon the marble, — Julie Chalet.

Adèle has written to her father, of course, in those
days when the first shock of the new revelation had
passed. How could she do otherwise? If she has
poured out the bitterness of her grief and of her isolation,
she has mercifully spared him any reproach!

“I think I now understand,” she writes, “the reason
of your long absence from me. Whatever other griefs
I bear, I will not believe that it has been from lack of
affection for me. I recall that day, dear papa, when,
with my head lying on your bosom, you said to me,
`She is unworthy; I will love you for both.' You
must! But was she, papa, so utterly unworthy? I
think I have known her; nay, I feel almost sure, —
sure that these arms held her in the moment when she
breathed adieu to the world. If ever bad, I am sure
that she must have grown into goodness. I cannot, I

will not, think otherwise. I can tell you so many of her
kind deeds as will take away your condemnation. In
this hope I live, dear papa.

“I have found her true name too, at last, — Julie
Chalet, — is it not so? I wonder with what feeling you
will read it; will it be with a wakened fondness? will
it be with loathing? I tremble while I ask. You shall
go with me (will you not?) to her grave; and there a
kind Heaven will put in our hearts what memories are
best.

“I know now the secret of your caution in respect
to Reuben; you have been unwilling that your child
should bring any possible shame to the household of a
friend! Trust to me, — trust to me, papa, your sensitiveness
cannot possibly be keener, if it be more generous,
than my own. Yet I have never told you —
what I have since learned — of the unselfish devotion of
Reuben, which declared itself when he knew all, — all.
Would I not be almost tempted to thank him with —
myself? Yet, trust me, if I have written him with an
almost unmaidenly warmth, I have called to his mind
the great gulf that must lie between us.

“Is the old godmother, of whom you used to speak,
still alive? It seems that I should love to hang about
her neck in memory of days gone; it seems that I
should love the warm sky under which I was born, — I
am sure I should love the olive-orchards, and the vines,

and the light upon the sea. I feel as if I were living
in chains now. When, when will you come to break
them, and set me free?”

In those days of May, when the leaflets were unfolding,
and when the downy bluebells were lifting their
clustered blossoms filled with a mysterious fragrance,
like the breath of young babes, Adèle loved to linger
in the study of the parsonage; more than ever the
good Doctor seemed a “New Papa,” — more than ever
his eye dwelt upon her with a parental smile. It was
not that she loved Rose less, that she lingered here so
long; but she could not shake off the conviction that
some day soon Rose might shrink from her. The good
Doctor never would. Nor can it be counted strange if
there, in the study so familiar to her childhood, she
should recall the days when she had frolicked down the
orchard, when Reuben had gathered flowers for her,
when life seemed enchanting. Was it enchanting now?

The Doctor was always gravely kind. “Have courage,
Adaly, have courage!” he was wont to say; “God
orders all things right.”

And somehow, when she hears him say it, she believes
it more than ever.

Ten days, a fortnight, and a month pass, and there
is no acknowledgment from Reuben of her grateful
letter. He does not count it worth his while, apparently,
to break his long silence; or, possibly, he is too

much engrossed with livelier interests to give a thought
to this episode of his old life in Ashfield. Adèle is
disturbed by it; but the very disturbance gives her
new courage to combat faithfully the difficulties of her
position. “One cheering word I would have thought
he might have given me,” said she.

The appeal to her father, too, has no answer. Before
it reaches its destination, Maverick has taken ship
for America; and, singularly enough, it is fated that
the letter of Adèle should be first opened and read —
by her mother.