University of Virginia Library

59. LIX.

THE news of Maverick's prospective arrival, and the
comments of the good Doctor, — as we have said,
— shed a new light upon the position of Adèle. Old
Squire Elderkin, with a fatherly interest, was not unaffected
by it; indeed, the Doctor had been communicative
with him to a degree that had enlisted very warmly
the old gentleman's sympathies.

“Better late than never, Doctor,” had been his comment;
and he had thought it worth his while to drop a
hint or two in the ear of Phil.

“I say, Phil, my boy, I gave you a word of caution
not long ago in regard to — to Miss Maverick. There
were some bad stories afloat, my boy; but they are
cleared up, — quite cleared up, Phil.”

“I 'm glad of it, sir,” says Phil.

“So am I, — so am I, my boy. She 's a fine girl,
Phil, eh?”

“I think she is, sir.”

“The deuce you do! Well, and what then?”

Phil blushed, but the smile that came on his face
was not a hearty one.

“Well, Phil?”

“I said she was a fine girl, sir,” said he, measuredly.

“But she 's an uncommon fine girl, Phil, eh?”

“I think she is, sir.”

“Well?”

Phil was twirling his hat in an abstracted way between
his knees. “I don't think she 's to be won very
easily,” said he at last.

“Nonsense, Phil! Faint heart never won. Make a
bold push for it, my boy. The best birds drop at a
quick shot.”

“Do they?” said Phil, with a smile of incredulity
that the old gentleman did not comprehend.

He found, indeed, a much larger measure of hope
in a little hint that was let fall by Rose two days after.
“I would n't despair if I were you, Phil,” she had
whispered in his ear.

Ah, those quiet, tender, sisterly words of encouragement,
of cheer, of hope! Blest is the man who can
enjoy them! and accursed must he be who scorns
them, or who can never win them.

Phil, indeed, had never given over most devoted and
respectful attentions to Adèle; but he had shown
them latterly with a subdued and half-distrustful air,
which Adèle with her keen insight had not been slow
to understand. Trust a woman for fathoming all the
shades of doubt which overhang the addresses of a
lover!

Yet it was not easy for Phil, or indeed for any other,
to understand or explain the manner of Adèle at this
time. Elated she certainly was in the highest degree
at the thought of meeting and welcoming her father;
and there was an exuberance in her spirits when she
talked of it, that seemed almost unnatural; but the
coming shadow of the new mother whom she was
bound to welcome dampened all. The Doctor indeed
had warned her against the Romish prejudices of this
newly found relative, and had entreated her to cling
by the faith in which she had been reared; but it was
no fear of any such conflict that oppressed her; —
creeds all vanished under the blaze of that natural
affection which craved a motherly embrace and which
foresaw only falsity.

What wonder if her thought ran back, in its craving,
to the days long gone, — to the land where the olive
grew upon the hills, and the sunshine lay upon the
sea, — where an old godmother, with withered hands
clasped and raised, lifted up her voice at nightfall and
chanted, —

The Doctor would have been shocked had he heard
the words tripping from the tongue of Adèle; yet, for

her, they had no meaning save as expressive of a deep
yearning for motherly guidance and motherly affection.

Mrs. Elderkin, with her kindly instinct, had seen the
perplexity of Adèle, and had said to her one day,
“Ady, my dear, is the thought not grateful to you that
you will meet your mother once more, and be clasped
in her arms?”

“If I could, — if I could!” said Adèle, with a
burst of tears.

“But you will, my child, you will. The Doctor has
shown us the letters of your father. Nothing can be
clearer. Even now she must be longing to greet you.”

“Why does she not come, then?” — with a tone
that was almost taunting.

“But, Adèle, my dear, there may be reasons of
which you do not know or which you could not understand.”

“I could, — I do!” said Adèle, with spirit mastering
her grief. “'T is not my mother, my true mother;
she is in the grave-yard; I know it!”

“My dear child, do not decide hastily. We love
you; we all love you. You know that. And whatever
may happen, you shall have a home with us. I will
be a mother to you, Adele.”

The girl kissed her good hostess, and the words
lingered on her ear long after nightfall. Why not her
mother? What parent could be more kind? What

home more grateful? And should she bring dishonor
to it then? Could she be less sensitive to that thought
than her father had already shown himself? She
perceives, indeed, that within a short time, and since
the latter communications from her father, the manner
of those who had looked most suspiciously upon her
has changed. But they do not know the secret of
that broidered kerchief, — the secret of that terrible
death-clasp, which she never, never can forget. She
will be true to her own sense of honor; she will be
true, too, to her own faith, — the faith in which she has
been reared, — whatever may be the persuasions of
that new relative beyond the seas whom she so dreads
to meet.

Indeed, it is with dreary anticipations that she forecasts
now her return to that belle France which has so
long borne olive-branches along its shores for welcome;
she foresees struggle, change, hypocrisies, may be, —
who can tell? — and she begins to count the weeks
of her stay amid the quiet of Ashfield in the same
spirit in which youngsters score off the remaining days
of the long vacation. Adèle finds herself gathering,
and pressing within the leaves of some cherished book,
little sprays of dead bloom that shall be, in the dim
and mysterious future, mementos of the walks, the
frolics, the joys that have belonged to this staid New
England home. From the very parsonage door she

has brought away a sprig of a rampant sweet-brier
that has grown there this many a year, and its delicate
leaflets are among her chiefest treasures.

More eagerly than ever she listens to the kindly
voices that greet her and speak cheer to her in the
home of the Elderkins, — voices which she feels bitterly
will soon be heard no more by her. Even the
delicate and always respectful attentions of Phil have
an added, though a painful charm, since they are so
soon to have an end. She knows that she will remember
him always, though his tenderest words can waken
no hopes of a brighter future for her. She even takes
him partially into her confidence, and, strolling with
him down the street one day, she decoys him to the
churchyard gate, where she points out to him the stone
she had placed over the grave that was so sacred to
her.

“Phil,” said she, “you have always been full of
kindness for me. When I am gone, have a care of
that stone and grave, please, Phil. My best friend lies
there.”

“I don't think you know your best friends,” stammered
Phil.

“I know you are one,” said Adèle, calmly, “and that
I can trust you to do what I ask about this grave. Can
I, Phil?”

“You know you can, Adèle; but I don't like this

talk of your going, as if you were never to be among
us again. Do you think you can be happiest yonder
with strangers, Adèle?”

“It 's not — where I can be happiest, Phil;” I don't
ask myself that question; I fear I never can; — and
her lips trembled as she said it.

“You can, — you ought,” burst out Phil, fired at
sight of her emotion, and would have gone on bravely
and gallantly, may be, with the passion that was surging
in him, if a look of hers and a warning finger had
not stayed him.

“We 'll talk no more of this, Phil;” and her lips
were as firm as iron now.

Both of them serious and silent for a while; until
at length Adèle, in quite her old manner, says: “Of
course, Phil, father may bring me to America again
some day; and if so, I shall certainly beg for a little
visit in Ashfield. It would be very ungrateful in me
not to remember the pleasant times I 've had here.”

But Phil cannot so deftly change the color of his
talk; his chattiness has all gone from him. Nor does
it revive on reaching home. Good Mrs. Elderkin
says, “What makes you so crusty, Phil?”