University of Virginia Library

67. LXVII.

IN the autumn of 1845, three years after the incidents
related in our last chapter, Mr. Philip Elderkin,
being at that time president of a railroad company,
which was establishing an important connection of
travel that was to pass within a few miles of the quiet
town of Ashfield, was a passenger on the steamer Caledonia
for Europe. He sailed, partly in the interest
of the company, — to place certain bonds, — and partly
in his own interest, as an intelligent man, eager to add
to his knowledge of the world.

At Paris, where he passed some time, it chanced that
he was one evening invited to the house of a resident
American, where, he was gayly assured, he would meet
with a very attractive American heiress, the only daughter
of a merchant of large fortune.

Philip Elderkin — brave, straightforward fellow that
he was — had never forgotten his early sentiment. He
had cared for those French graves in Ashfield with an
almost religious attention. In all the churchyard there
was not such scrupulously shorn turf, or such orderly
array of bloom. He counted — in a fever of doubt —
upon a visit to Marseilles before his sail for home.

But at the soirée we have mentioned he was amazed
and delighted to meet, in the person of the heiress,
Adèle Maverick, — not changed essentially since the
time he had known her. That life at Marseilles —
even in the well-appointed home of her father — has
none of that domesticity which she had learned to
love; and this first winter in Paris for her does not
supply the lack. That she has a great company of
admirers it is easy to understand; but yet she gives a
most cordial greeting to Phil Elderkin, — a greeting
that by its manner makes the pretenders doubtful.
Philip finds it possible to reconcile the demands of
his business with a week's visit to Marseilles. To the
general traveler it is not a charming region. The
dust abounds; the winds are terrible; the sun is
scalding. But Mr. Philip Elderkin found it delightful.
And, indeed, the country-house of Mr. Maverick had
attractions of its own; attractions so great that his
week runs over into two, — into three. There are
excursions to the Pont du Gard, to the Arène of Arles.
And, before he leaves, he has an engagement there
(which he has enforced by very peremptory proposals)
for the next spring.

On his return to Ashfield, he reports a very successful
trip. To his sister Rose (now Mrs. Catesby, with a
blooming little infant, called Grace Catesby) he is
specially communicative. And she thinks it was a

glorious trip, and longs for the time when he will make
the next. He, furthermore, to the astonishment of
Dame Tourtelot (whose husband sleeps now under the
sod), has commenced the establishment of a fine
home, upon a charming site, overlooking all Ashfield.
The Squire, still stalwart, cannot resist giving a hint
of what is expected to the old Doctor, who still wearily
goes his rounds, and prays for the welfare of his flock.

He is delighted at the thought of meeting again
with Adèle, though he thinks with a sigh of his lost
boy. Yet he says in his old manner, “'T is the hand
of Providence: she first bloomed into grace under the
roof of our church; she comes back to adorn it with
her faith and her works.”

At a date three years later we take one more glimpse
at that quiet village of Ashfield, where we began our
story. The near railway has brought it into more
intimate connection with the shore towns and the great
cities. But there is no noisy clatter of the cars to
break the quietude. On still days, indeed, the shriek
of the steam-whistle or the roar of a distant train is
heard bursting over the hills, and dying in strange
echoes up and down the valley. The stage-driver's
horn is heard no longer; no longer the coach whirls
into the village and delivers its leathern pouch of
letters. The Tew partners we once met are now partners

in the grave. Deacon Tourtelet (as we have
already hinted) has gone to his long home; and the
dame has planted over him the slab of “Varmont”
marble, which she has bought at a bargain from his
“nevvy.”

The Boody tavern-keeper has long since disappeared;
no teams wheel up with the old dash at the
doors of the Eagle Tavern. The creaking sign-board
even is gone from the overhanging sycamore.

Miss Almira is still among the living. She sings
treble, however, no longer; she wears spectacles;
she writes no more over mystical asterisks for the
“Hartford Courant.” Age has brought to her at least
this much of wisdom.

The mill groans, as of old, in the valley. A new
race of boys pelt the hanging nests of the orioles; a
new race of school-girls hang swinging on the village
gates at the noonings.

As for Miss Johns, she lives still, — scarce older to
appearance than twenty years before, — prim, wiry,
active, — proof against all ailments, it would seem. It
is hard to conceive of her as yielding to the great conqueror.
If the tongue and an inflexibility of temper
were the weapons, she would whip Death from her
chamber at the last. It seems like amiability almost
to hear such a one as she talk of her approaching,
inevitable dissolution, — so kindly in her to yield that
point!

And she does; she declares it over and over; there
are far feebler ones who do not declare it half so often.
If she is to be conquered and the Johns banner go
down, she will accept the defeat so courageously and
so long in advance that the defeat shall become a victorious
confirmation of the Johns prophecy.

She is still earnest in all her duties; she gives castaway
clothing to the poor, and good advice with it.
She is rigorous in the observance of every propriety;
no storm keeps her from church. If the children of
a new generation climb unduly upon the pew-backs, or
shake their curly heads too wantonly, she lifts a prim
forefinger at them, which has lost none of its authoritative
meaning. She is the impersonation of all good
severities. A strange character! Let us hope that,
as it sloughs off its earthly cerements, it may in the
Divine presence scintillate charities and draw toward
it the love of others. A good, kind, bad gentlewoman,
— unwearied in performance of duties. We wonder
as we think of her! So steadfast, we cannot sneer at
her, — so true to her line of faith, we cannot condemn
her, — so utterly forbidding, we cannot love her!
May God give rest to her good, stubborn soul!

Upon Sundays of August and September there may
be occasionally seen in the pew of Elderkin Junior a
gray-haired old gentleman, dressed with scrupulous

care, and still carrying an erect figure, though somewhat
gouty in his step. This should be Mr. Maverick,
a retired merchant, who is on a visit to his daughter.
He makes wonderful gifts to a certain little boy who
bears a Puritan name, and gives occasional ponderous
sums to the parish. In winter, his head-quarters are
at the Union Club.

And Doctor Johns? Yes, he is living still, — making
his way wearily each morning along the street with
his cane. Going oftenest, perhaps, to the home of
Adèle, who is now a matron, — a tender, and most
womanly and joyful matron, — and with her little boy
— Reuben Elderkin by name — he wanders often to
the graves where sleep his best beloved, — Rachel, so
early lost, — the son, in respect to whom he feels at
last a “reasonable assurance” that the youth has entered
upon a glorious inheritance in those courts where
one day he will join him, and the sainted Rachel too,
and clasp again in his arms (if it be God's will) the
babe that was his but for an hour on earth.