University of Virginia Library

36. XXXVI.

AUTUMN and winter passed by, and the summer
of 1838 opened upon the old quiet life of Ashfield.
The stiff Miss Johns, busy with her household
duties, or with her stately visitings. The Doctor's hat
and cane in their usual place upon the little table within
the door, and of a Sunday his voice is lifted up
under the old meeting-house roof in earnest expostulation.
The birds pipe their old songs, and the orchard
has shown once more its wondrous glory of bloom.
But all these things have lost their novelty for Adèle.
Would it be strange, if the tranquil life of the little
town had lost something of its early charm? That
swift French blood of hers has been stirred by contact
with the outside world. She has, perhaps, not been
wholly insensible to those admiring glances which so
quickened the pride of the father. Do not such things
leave a hunger in the heart of a girl of seventeen
which the sleepy streets of a country town can but
poorly gratify?

The young girl is, moreover, greatly disturbed at the
thought of the new separation from her father for some
indefinite period. Her affections have knitted themselves
around him, during that delightful journey of
the summer, in a way that has made her feel with new
weight the parting. It is all the worse that she does
not clearly perceive the necessity for it. Is she not of
an age now to contribute to the cheer of whatever
home he may have beyond the sea? Why, pray, has
he given her such uninviting pictures of his companions
there? Or what should she care for his companions,
if only she could enjoy his tender watchfulness?
Or is it that her religious education is not yet thoroughly
complete, and that she still holds out against a
full and public avowal of all the doctrines which the
Doctor urges upon her acceptance? And the thought
of this makes his kindly severities appear more irksome
than ever.

Another cause of grief to Adèle is the extreme disfavor
in which she finds that Madame Arles is now regarded
by the towns-people. Her sympathies had run
towards the unfortunate woman in some inexplicable
way, and held there even now, so strongly that contemptuous
mention of her stung like a reproach to herself.
At least she was a countrywoman, and alone
among strangers; and in this Adèle found abundant
reason for a generous sympathy. As for her religion,

was it not the religion of her mother and of her good
godmother? And with this thought flaming in her, is
it wonderful if Adèle toys more fondly than ever, in
the solitude of her chamber, with the little rosary she
has guarded so long? Not, indeed, that she has much
faith in its efficacy; but it is a silent protest against the
harsh speeches of Miss Eliza, who had been specially
jealous of the influence of the French teacher.

“I never liked her countenance, Adèle,” said the
spinster, in her solemn manner; “and I am rejoiced
that you will not be under her influence the present
summer.”

“And I 'm sorry,” said Adèle, petulantly.

“It is gratifying to me,” continued Miss Eliza, without
notice of Adèle's interruption, “that Mr. Maverick
has confirmed my own impressions, and urged the
Doctor against permitting so unwise association.”

“When? how?” said Adèle, sharply. “Papa has
never seen her.”

“But he has seen other French women, Adèle, and
he fears their influence.”

Adèle looked keenly at the spinster for a moment,
as if to fathom the depth of this reply, then burst into
tears.

“Oh, why, why did n't he take me with him?” But
this she says under breath, and to herself, as she rushes
into the Doctor's study to question him.

“Is it true, New Papa, that papa thought badly of
Madame Arles?”

“Not personally, my child, since he had never seen
her. But, Adaly, your father, though I fear he is far
away from the true path, wishes you to find it, my child.
He has faith in the religion we teach so imperfectly;
he wishes you to be exposed to no influences that will
forbid your full acceptance of it.”

“But Madame Arles never talked of religion to
me;” and Adèle taps impatiently upon the floor.

“That may be true, Adaly, — it may be true; but we
cannot be thrown into habits of intimacy with those
reared in iniquity without fear of contracting stain. I
could wish, my child, that you would so far subdue
your rebellious heart, and put on the complete armor
of righteousness, as to be able to resist all attacks.”

“And it was for this papa left me here?” And
Adèle says it with a smile of mockery that alarms the
good Doctor.

“I trust Adaly, that he had that hope.”

The good man does not know what swift antagonism
to his pleadings he has suddenly kindled in her. The
little foot taps more and more impatiently as he goes on
to set forth (as he had so often done) the heinousness
of her offences and the weight of her just condemnation.
Yet the antagonism did not incline her to open
doubt; but after she had said her evening prayer that

night, (taught her by the parson,) she drew out her
little rosary and kissed reverently the crucifix. It is so
much easier at this juncture for her tried and distracted
spirit to bolster its faith upon such material symbol
than to find repose in any merely intellectual conviction
of truth!

Adèle's intimacy with Rose and with her family retained
all its old tenderness, but that good fellow Phil
was gone. A blithe and merry companion he had
been! Adèle missed his kindly attentions more than
she would have believed. The Bowriggs have come to
Ashfield, but their clamorous friendship is more than
ever distasteful to Adèle. Over and over she makes a
feint of illness to escape the noisy hilarity. Nor, indeed,
is it wholly a feint. Whether it were that her
state of moral perturbation and unrest reacted upon
the physical system, or that there were other disturbing
causes, certain it was that the roses were fading from
her cheeks, and that her step was losing day by day
something of its old buoyancy. It is even thought
best to summon the village doctor to the family council.
He is a gossiping, kindly old gentleman, who spends
an easy life, free from much mental strain, in trying to
make his daily experiences tally with the little fund of
medical science which he accumulated thirty years
before.

The serene old gentleman feels the pulse, with

his head reflectively on one side, — tells his little
jokelet about Sir Astley Cooper, or some other
worthy of the profession, — shakes his fat sides with
a cheery laugh, — “And now, my dear,” he says,
“let us look at the tongue. Ah, I see, I see, —
the stomach lacks tone.”

“And there 's dreadful lassitude, sometimes, Doctor,”
speaks up Miss Eliza.

“Ah, I see, — a little exhaustion after a long walk,
— is n't it so, Miss Maverick? I see, I see; we
must brace up the system, Miss Johns, — brace up
the system.”

And the kindly old gentleman prescribes his little
tonics, of which Adèle takes some, and throws more
out of the window.

Adèle does not mend, and the rumor is presently
current upon the street that “Miss Adeel is in a
decline.” The spinster shows a solicitude in the
matter which almost touches the heart of the French
girl. For Adèle had long before decided that there
could be no permanent sympathy between them, and
had indulged latterly in no little bitterness of speech
toward her. But the acute spinster had forgiven
all. Never once had she lost sight of her plan for
the ultimate disposal of Adèle and of her father's
fortune. Of course the life of Adèle was very dear
to her, and the absence of Phil she looked upon as
providential.

Weeks pass by, but still the tonics of the
kindly old physician prove of little efficacy. One
day the Bowriggs came blustering in, as is their
wont.

“Such assurance! Did you ever hear the like?
Madame Arles writes us that she is coming to see
Ashfield again, and of course coming to us. The
air of the town agrees with her, and she hopes to
find lodgings.”

The eyes of Adèle sparkle with satisfaction, — not
so much, perhaps, by reason of her old sympathy
with the poor woman, which is now almost forgotten,
as because it will give some change at least to the
dreary monotony of the town life.

“Lodgings, indeed!” says the younger Miss Bowrigg.
“I wonder where she will find them!”

It is a matter of great doubt, to be sure, — since
the sharp speech of the spinster has so spread the
story of her demerits, that not a parishioner of the
Doctor but would have feared to give the poor
woman a home.

Adèle still has strength enough for an occasional
stroll with Rose, and, in the course of one of them,
comes upon Madame Arles, whom she meets with
a good deal of her old effusion. And Madame,
touched by her apparent weakness, more than reciprocates
it.

“But you suffer, you are unhappy, my child, —
pining at last for the sun of Provence. Is n't it so,
mon ange? No, no, you were never meant to grow
up among these cold people. You must see the
vineyards, and the olives, and the sea, Adèle; you
must! you must!”

All this, uttered in a torrent, which, with its tutoiements,
Rose can poorly comprehend.

Yet it goes straight to the heart of Adèle, and
her tongue is loosened to a little petulant, fiery, roulade
against the severities of the life around her, which
it would have greatly pained poor Rose to listen to
in any speech of her own.

But such interviews, once or twice repeated, come
to the knowledge of the watchful spinster, who
clearly perceives that Adèle is chafing more and
more under the wonted family regimen. With an
affectation of tender solicitude, she volunteers herself
to attend Adèle upon her short morning strolls, and
she learns presently, with great triumph, that Madame
Arles has established herself at last under the same
roof which gives refuge to the outcast Boody woman.
Nothing more was needed to seal the opinion of
the spinster, and to confirm the current village belief
in the heathenish character of the French lady.
Dame Tourtelot was shrewdly of the opinion that the
woman represented some Popish plot for the abduction

of Adèle, and for her incarceration in a nunnery,
— a theory which Miss Almira, with her natural
tendency to romance, industriously propagated.

Meantime the potions of the village doctor have
little effect, and before July is ended a serious
illness has declared itself, and Adèle is confined to
her chamber. Madame Arles is among the earliest
who come with eager inquiries, and begs to see the
sufferer. But she is confronted by the indefatigable
spinster, who, cloaking her denial under ceremonious
form, declares that her state of nervous prostration
will not admit of it. Madame withdraws, sadly; but
the visit and the claim are repeated from time to
time, until the stately civility of Miss Johns arouses
her suspicions.

“You deny me, Madame. You do wrong. I love
Adèle; she loves me. I know that I could comfort
her. You do not understand her nature. She was
born where the sky is soft and warm. You are all
cold and harsh, — cold and harsh in your religion.
She has told me as much. I know how she suffers.
I wish I could carry her back to France with me.
I pray you, let me see her, good Madame!”

“It is quite impossible, I assure you,” said the
spinster, in her most aggravating manner. “It
would be quite against the wishes of my brother,
the Doctor, as well as of Mr. Maverick.”

“Monsieur Maverick! Mon Dieu, Madame! He
is no father to her; he leaves her to die with
strangers; he has no heart; I have better right:
I love her. I must see her!”

And with a passionate step, — those eyes of hers
glaring in that strange double way upon the amazed
Miss Eliza, — she strides toward the door, as if she
would overcome all opposition. But before she has
gone out, that cruel pain has seized her, and she
sinks upon a chair, quite prostrated, and with hands
clasped wildly over that burden of a heart.

“Too hard! too hard!” she murmurs, scarce above
her breath.

The spinster is attentive, but is untouched. Her
self-poise never deserts her. And not then, or at
any later period, did poor Madame Arles succeed
in overcoming the iron resolve of Miss Johns.

The good Doctor is greatly troubled by the report
of Miss Eliza. Can it be possible that Adèle has
given a confidence to this strange woman that she
has not given to them? Cold and harsh! Can
Adèle, indeed, have said this? Has he not labored
with a full heart? Has he not agonized in prayer
to draw in this wandering lamb to the fold? He
has seen, indeed, that the poor child has chafed
much latterly, that the old serenity and gayety are
gone. But is it not a chafing under the fetters of

sin? Is it not that she begins to see more clearly
the fiery judgments of God which will certainly
overwhelm the wrong-doers, whatever may be the
unsubstantial and evanescent graces of their mortal
life?

Yet, with all the rigidity of his doctrine, which
he cannot in conscience mollify, even for the tender
ears of Adèle, it disturbs him strangely to hear that
she has qualified his regimen as harsh or severe.
Has he not taught, in season and out of season,
the fullness of God's promises? Has he not labored
and prayed? Is it not the ungodly heart in her
that finds his teaching a burden? Is not his conscience
safe? Yet, for all this, it touches him to
the quick to think that her childlike, trustful confidence
is at last alienated from him, — that her
affection for him is so distempered by dread and
weariness. For, unconsciously, he has grown to love
her as he loves no one save his boy Reuben; unconsciously
his heart has mellowed under her influence.
Through her winning, playful talk, he has
taken up that old trail of worldly affections which
he had thought buried forever in Rachel's grave.
That tender touch of her little fingers upon his
cheek has seemed to say, “Life has its joys, old
man!” The patter of her feet along the house has
kindled the memories of other gentle steps that

tread now silently in the courts of air. Those songs
of hers, — how he has loved them! Never confessing
even to Miss Eliza, still less to himself, how
much his heart is bound up in this little winsome
stranger, who has shone upon his solitary parsonage
like a sunbeam.

And the good man, with such thoughts thronging on
him, falls upon his knees, beseeching God to “be over
the sick child, to comfort her, to heal her, to pour down
His divine grace upon her, to open her blind eyes to the
richness of His truth, to keep her from all the machinations
and devices of Satan, to arm her with true holiness,
to make her a golden light in the household, to
give her a heart of love toward all, and most of all toward
Him who so loved her that He gave His only begotten
Son.”

And the Doctor, rising from his attitude of prayer,
and going toward the little window of his study to arrange
it for the night, sees a slight figure in black
pacing up and down upon the opposite side of the way,
and looking up from time to time to the light that is
burning in the window of Adèle. He knows on the
instant who it must be, and fears more than ever the
possible influence which this strange woman, who is so
persistent in her attention, may have upon the heart
of the girl. The Doctor had heretofore been disposed
to turn a deaf ear to the current reproaches of Madame

Arles for her association with the poor outcast daughter
of the village; but her appearance at this unseemly
hour of the night, coupled with his traditional belief
in the iniquities of the Romish Church, excited terrible
suspicions in his mind. Like most holy men, ignorant
of the crafts and devices of the world, he no sooner
blundered into a suspicion of some deep Devil's cunning
than every footfall and every floating zephyr
seemed to confirm it. He bethought himself of Maverick's
earnest caution; and before he went to bed
that night, he prayed that no designing Jezebel might
corrupt the poor child committed to his care.

The next night the Doctor looked again from his
window, after blowing out his lamp, and there once
more was the figure in black, pacing up and down.
What could it mean? Was it possible that some Satanic
influence could pass over from this emissary of
the Evil One, (as he firmly believed her to be,) for the
corruption of the sick child who lay in the delirium of
a fever above?

The extreme illness of Adèle was subject of common
talk in the village, and the sympathy was very great.
On the following night Adèle was far worse, and the
Doctor, at about his usual bed-time, went out to summon
the physician. At a glance he saw in the shadow
of the opposite houses the same figure pacing up and
down. He hurried his steps, fearing she might seek

occasion to dart in upon the sick-chamber before his
return. But he had scarcely gone twenty paces from his
door, when he heard a swift step behind, and in another
instant there was a grip, as of a tigress, upon his arm.

“Adèle, — how is she? Tell me!”

“Ill, — very ill,” said the Doctor, shaking himself
from her grasp, and continued in his solemn manner,
“it is an hour to be at home, woman!”

But she, paying no heed to his admonition, says, —

“I must see her, — I must!” — and dashes back
toward the parsonage.

The Doctor, terrified, follows after. But he can
keep no manner of pace with that swift, dark figure
that glides before him. He comes to the porch panting.
The door is closed. Has the infuriated woman
gone in? No, for presently her grasp is again upon
his arm; for a moment she had sunk, exhausted by
fatigue, or overcome by emotion, upon the porch. Her
tone is more subdued.

“I entreat you, good Doctor, let me see Adèle! —
for Christ's sake, if you be His minister, let me see
her!”

“Impossible, woman, impossible!” says the Doctor,
more than ever satisfied of her Satanic character by
what he counts her blasphemous speech. “Adaly is
delirious, — fearfully excited: it would destroy her.
The only hope is in perfect quietude.”

The woman releases her grasp.

“Please, Doctor, let me come to-morrow. I must
see her! I will see her!”

“You shall not,” said the Doctor, with solemnity, —
“never, with my permission. Go to your home, woman,
and pray God to have mercy on you.”

“Monster!” exclaimed she, passionately, as she
shook the Doctor's arm, still under her grasp; and
murmuring other words in language the good man did
not comprehend, she slipped silently down the yard, —
away into the darkness.