University of Virginia Library

60. LX.

MAVERICK arrives, as he had promised to do,
some time in early July; comes up from the
city without announcing himself in advance; and, leaving
the old coach, which still makes its periodical trips
from the river, a mile out from the town, strolls along
the highway. He remembers well the old outline of
the hills; and the straggling hedge-rows, the scattered
granite boulders, the whistling of a quail from a near
fence in the meadow, all recall the old scenes which
he knew in boyhood. At a solitary house by the wayside
a flaxen - haired youngster is blowing off soap-bubbles
into the air, — with obstreperous glee whenever
one rises above the house - tops, — while the
mother, with arms akimbo, looks admiringly from the
open window. It was the home to which the feet of
Adèle had latterly so often wandered.

Maverick is anxious for a word with the Doctor before
his interview with Adèle even. He does not know
her present home; but he is sure he can recall the old
parsonage, in whose exterior, indeed, there have been
no changes for years. The shade of the embowering

elms is grateful as he strolls on into the main street
of the town. It is early afternoon, and there are few
passers-by. Here and there a blind is coyly turned,
and a sly glance cast upon the stranger. A trio of
school-boys look wonderingly at his foreign air and
dress. A few loiterers upon the tavern steps — instructed,
doubtless, by the stage-driver, who has duly
delivered his portmanteau — remark upon him as he
passes.

And now at last he sees the old porch, — the diamond
lights in the door. Twenty and more years ago,
and he had lounged there, as the pretty Rachel drove
up in the parson's chaise. The same rose-brier is nodding
its untrimmed boughs by the door. From the
open window above he catches a glimpse of a hard, thin
face, with spectacles on nose, that scans him curiously.
The Doctor's hat and cane are upon the table at the
foot of the stairs within. He taps with his knuckles
upon the study-door, — and again the two college
mates are met together. At sight of the visitor, whom
he recognizes at a glance, the heart of the old man is
stirred by a little of the old youthful feeling.

“Maverick!” and he greets him with open hand.

“Johns, God bless you!”

The parson was white-haired, and was feeble to a
degree that shocked Maverick; while the latter was
still erect and prim, and, with his gray hair carefully

brushed to conceal his growing baldness, appeared in
excellent preservation. His coquettings for sixty years
with the world, the flesh, and the Devil had not yet
reduced his phisique to that degree of weakness which
the multiplied spiritual wrestlings had entailed upon
the good Doctor. The minister recognized this with a
look rather of pity than of envy, and may possibly have
bethought himself of that Dives who “in his lifetime
received good things,” but “now is tormented.”

Yet he ventured upon no warning; there is, indeed,
a certain assured manner about the man of the world
who has passed middle age, which a country parson,
however good or earnest he may be, would no more
attempt to pierce than he would attempt a thrust of
his pen through ice.

Their conversation, after the first greetings, naturally
centers upon Adèle. Maverick is relieved to find
that she knows, even now, the worst; but he is grievously
pained to learn that she is still in doubt, by reason
of that strange episode which had grown out of the
presence and death of Madame Arles, — an episode
which, even now, he is at a loss to explain.

“She will be unwilling to return with me then,” said
Maverick, in a troubled manner.

“No,” said the Doctor, “she expects that. You will
find in her, Maverick, a beautiful respect for your authority;
and, I think, a still higher respect for the
truth.”

So it was with disturbed and conflicting feelings
that Maverick made his way to the present home of
Adèle.

The windows and doors of the Elderkin mansion
were all open upon that July day. Adèle had seen
him, even as he entered the little gate, and, recognizing
him on the instant, had rushed down to meet him
in the hall.

“Papa! papa!” and she had buried her face upon
his bosom.

“Adèle, darling! you are glad to welcome me
then?”

“Delighted, papa.”

And Maverick kissed, again and again, that fair face
of which he was so proud.

We recoil from the attempt to transcribe the glowing
intimacy of their first talk.

After a time, Maverick says, “You will be glad to
return with me, — glad to embrace again your
mother?”

“My own, true mother?” said Adèle, the blood running
now swift over cheek and brow.

“Your own, Adèle, — your own! As God is true!”

Adèle grows calm, — an unwonted calmness. “Tell
me how she looks, papa,” said she.

Your figure, Adèle; not so tall, perhaps, but slight
like you; and her hair, — you have her hair, darling

(and he kissed it). Your eye too, for color, with a
slight, hardly noticeable cast in it.” And as Adèle
turned an inquiring glance upon him, he exclaimed:
“You have that too, my darling, as you look at me
now.”

Adèle, still calm, says: “I know it, papa; I have
seen her. Do not deceive me. She died in these
arms, papa!” — and with that her calmness is gone.
She can only weep upon his shoulder.

“But, Adèle, child, this cannot be; do not trust to
so wild a fancy. You surely believe me, darling?”

Had she argued the matter, he would have been better
satisfied. She did not, however. Her old tranquillity
came again.

“I will go with you, papa, cheerfully,” said she.

It was only too evident to Maverick that there was a
cause of distrust between them. Under all of Adèle's
earnest demonstrations of affection, which were intensely
grateful to him, there was still a certain apparent
reserve of confidence, as if some great inward leaning
of her heart found no support in him or his. This
touched him to the quick. The Doctor — had he unfolded
the matter to him fully — would have called it,
may be, the sting of retribution. Nor was Maverick at
all certain that the shadowy doubt which seemed to
rest upon the mind of Adèle with respect to the identity
of her mother was the sole cause of this secret reserve

of confidence. It might be, he thought, that her
affections were otherwise engaged, and that the change
to which she assented with so little fervor would be at
the cost of other ties to which he was a stranger.

On this score he consulted with the Doctor. As regarded
Reuben, there could be no doubt. Whatever
tie may have existed there was long since broken.
With respect to Phil Elderkin the parson was not so
certain. Maverick had been attracted by his fine,
frank manner, and was not blind to his capital business
capacities and prospects. If the happiness of
Adèle were in question, he could entertain the affair.
He even ventured to approach the topic — coyly as he
could — in a talk with Adèle; and she, as the first
glimmer of his meaning dawned upon her, says, “Don't
whisper it, papa. It can never be.”

And so Maverick — not a little disconcerted at the
thought that he cannot now, as once, fathom all the
depths of his child's sensibilities — sets himself resolutely
to the work of preparation for departure. His
affaires may keep him a month, and involve a visit to
one or two of the principal cities; then, ho for la belle
France! Adèle certainly lends a cheerful assent. He
cannot doubt — with those repeated kisses on his cheek
and brow — her earnest filial affection; and if her sentiment
slips beyond his control, or parries all his keenness
of vision, what else has a father, verging upon

sixty, to expect in a daughter, tenderly affectionate as
she may be? Maverick's philosophy taught him to
“take the world as it is.” Only one serious apprehension
of disquietude oppressed him; the doubts and
vagaries of Adèle would clear themselves under the
embrace of Julie; but in respect to the harmony of
their religious beliefs he had grave doubts. There had
grown upon Adèle, since he had last seen her, a
womanly dignity, which even a mother must respect;
and into that dignity — into the woof and warp of it —
were inwrought all her religious sympathies. Was his
home yonder across the seas to become the scene of
struggles about creeds? It certainly was not the sort
of domestic picture he had foreshadowed to himself at
twenty-five. But at sixty a man blows bubbles no
longer — except that of his own conceit. The heart
of Maverick was not dead in him; a kiss of Adèle
wakened a thrilling, delicious sensation there, of which
he had forgotten his capability. He followed her
graceful step and figure with an eye that looked beyond
and haunted the past — vainly, vainly! Her
“Papa!” — sweetly uttered — stirred sensibilities in
him that amazed himself, and seemed like the phantoms
of dreams he dreamed long ago.

But in the midst of Maverick's preparations for departure
a letter came to hand from Mrs. Maverick,
which complicated once more the situation.