In the autumn of 1836, Maverick wrote to his friend, the Doctor, that,
in view of the settled condition of business, he intended to visit
America some time in the course of the following season. He preferred,
however, that Adele should not be made acquainted with his expected
coming. He believed that it would be a pleasant surprise for his child;
nor did he wish her anticipations of his arrival to divert her from the
usual current of her study and every-day life.
"Above all," he writes, "I wish to see her as she is, without any note
of preparation. You will therefore, I beg, my dear Johns, keep from her
scrupulously all knowledge of my present intentions, (which may possibly
miscarry, after all,) and let me see, to the very finest touch, whether
of a ribbon or of a ringlet, how far you have New-Englandized my dear
girl. I form a hundred pictures in my fancy; but every new letter from
her somehow disturbs the old image, and another is conjured up. The only
_real_ thing in my mind is, after all, a little child of eight, rosy and
piquantly coquettish, who slaps my cheek when I tease her, and who, as I
bid her adieu at last upon the ship's deck, looks through her tears at
me and waves her little kerchief.
"It is quite possible that I may manage for her return with me, (of this
plan, too, I beg you to give no hint,) and in view of it I would suggest
that any available occasion be seized upon to revive her knowledge of
French, which, I fear, in your staid household she may almost have
forgotten. Tell dear Adele that I am sometimes at Le Pin, where her
godmother never fails to inquire after her and call down blessings on
the dear child."
Upon this the Doctor and Miss Johns take counsel. Both are not a little
disturbed by the anticipation of Adele's leave. The grave Doctor finds
his heart wrapped about by the winning ways of the little stranger in a
manner he could hardly have conceived possible on the day when he first
greeted her. On the score of her religious beliefs, he is not, indeed,
as yet thoroughly satisfied; but he feels sure that she is at least in a
safe path. The old idols are broken: God, in His own time, will do the
rest.
The spinster, though she has become unconsciously attached to Adele to a
degree of which she hardly believes herself capable, is yet not so much
disconcerted by the thought of any violence to her affections,--for all
violence of this kind she has schooled herself to regard with cool
stoicism,--but the possible interruption of her ambitious schemes with
respect to Reuben and Adele discomposes her sadly. Such a scheme she has
never given over for one moment. No plan of hers is ever given over
lightly; and she has that persistent faith in her own sagacity and
prudence which is not easily shaken. The growing intercourse with the
Elderkins, in view of the evident devotion of Phil, has been, indeed,
the source of a little uneasiness; but even this intimacy she has
moderated to a certain degree by occasional judicious fears in regard to
Adele's exposure to the night air; and has made the most--in her quiet
manner--of Phil's exceptional, but somewhat noisy, attentions to that
dashing girl, Sophie Bowrigg.
"A very suitable match it would be," she says some evening, casually, to
the Doctor; "and I really think that Phil, if there were any seriousness
about the lad, would meet his father's wishes in the matter. Adele,
child," (she is sitting by at her worsted,) "are you sure you've the
right shade of brown there?"
But, like most cool schemers in what concerns the affections, she makes
her errors. Her assurance in regard to the improved habits and character
of Reuben, and her iteration of the wonderful attachment which the
Brindlocks bear to the lad, have a somewhat strained air to the ear of
Adele. And when the spinster says,--folding up his last letter,--"Good
fellow! always some tender little message for you, my dear," Adele
thinks--as most girls of her age would be apt to think--that she would
like to see the tender message with her own eyes.
But what of the French? Where is there to be found a competent teacher?
Not, surely, in Ashfield. Miss Eliza, with grave doubts, however,
suggests a winter in New York with the Brindlocks. The Doctor shakes his
head:--
"Not to be thought of, Eliza. It is enough that my boy should undergo
the perils of such godless association: Adaly shall not."
The question, however, of the desired opportunity is not confined to the
parsonage; it has currency up and down the street; and within a week the
buoyant Miss Bowrigg comes to the rescue.
"Delighted above all things to hear it. They have a charming teacher in
the city, Madame Arles, who has the best accent. And now, Adele, dear,
you must come down and pass the winter with us. It will be charming."
It is, indeed, a mere girlish proposal at first; but, much to the
delight of Miss Eliza, it is abundantly confirmed by a formal invitation
from Mrs. Bowrigg, a few weeks after, who, besides being attracted by
the manners and character of Adele, sees in it an admirable opportunity
for the accomplishment of her daughters in French. Her demonstrative
girls and a son of twenty comprise her family. For these reasons, she
will regard it as a favor, if the Doctor will allow Miss Maverick to
establish herself with them for the winter.
Miss Eliza is delighted with the scheme, but fears the cool judgment of
the Doctor: and she has abundant reason.
"It cannot be," he said, and was quite inexorable.
The truth is, that Mrs. Bowrigg, like a good many educated with a narrow
severity, had expanded her views under the city influences in
directions that were by no means approved by the good Doctor. Hers was
not only a godless household, but given over to the lusts of the eye and
the pride of life. It was quite impossible for him to entertain the idea
of submitting Adele to any such worldly associations.
Miss Eliza pleaded the exigencies of the case in vain; and even Adele,
attracted by the novelty of the proposed situation, urged her claim in
the cheeriest little manner conceivable.
"Only for the winter, New Papa; please say 'Yes'!"
And the tender hands patted the grave face, as she seated herself with a
childish coquetry upon the elbow of his chair.
"Impossible, quite impossible," says the Doctor. "You are too dear to
me, Adaly."
"Oh, now, New Papa, you don't mean that,--not _positively_?"--and the
winning fingers tap his cheek again.
But for this time, at least, Adele is to lose her claim; the Doctor well
knows that to suffer such endearments were to yield; so he rises
brusquely,--
"I must be just, my child, to the charge your father has imposed upon
me. It cannot be."
It will not be counted strange, if a little ill-disguised petulance
appeared in the face of Adele that day and the next.
The winter of 1836-7 was a very severe one throughout New England.
Perhaps it was in view of its severity, that, on or about New Year's
Day, there came to the parsonage a gift from Reuben for Adele, in the
shape of a fur tippet, very much to the gratification of Miss Eliza and
to the pleasant surprise of the Doctor.
Rose and Phil, sitting by the fire next day, Rose says, in a timid
voice, with less than her usual sprightliness,--
"Do you know who has sent a beautiful fur tippet to Adele, Phil?"
"No," says Phil, briskly. "Who?"
"Reuben," says Rose,--in a tone as if a blush ran over her face at the
utterance.
If there was one, however, Phil could not have seen it; he was looking
steadfastly into the fire, and said only,--
"I don't care."
A little after, (nothing having been said, meantime,) he has occasion to
rearrange the wood upon the hearth, and does it with such preposterous
violence that the timid little voice beside him says,--
"Don't, Phil, be angry with the fire!"
It was a winter, as we have said, for fur tippets and for glowing
cheeks; and Adele had now been long enough under a Northern sky to
partake of that exhilaration of spirits which belongs to every true-born
New-Englander in presence of one of those old-fashioned snowstorms,
which, all through the day and through the night, sifts out from the
gray sky its fleecy crystals,--covering the frosted high-roads, covering
the withered grasses, covering the whole summer's wreck in one glorious
white burial; and after it, keen frosty mornings, the pleasant jingling
of scores of bells, jets of white vapor from the nostrils of the
prancing horses, and a quick electric tingle to the blood, that makes
every pulse beat a thanksgiving. Squire Elderkin never made better
jokes, the flame upon his hearth never danced more merrily,--the Doctor
never preached better sermons, and the people never listened more
patiently than in those weeks of the dead of winter.
But in the midst of them a black shadow fell upon the little town. News
came overland, (the river being closed,) that Mrs. Bowrigg, after an
illness of three days, was dead; and the body of the poor woman was to
come home for burial. She had been reared, as we have said, under a
harsh regimen, and had signalized her married escape from the somewhat
oppressive formalities of home by a pretty free entertainment of all the
indulgences accessible in her new life. Not that she offended against
any of the larger or lesser proprieties of society, but she showed a
zest for the pleasures of the world, and for a certain measure of
display, which had been the occasion of many a sober shake of the head
along the streets of Ashfield, and the subject of particular
commiseration on the part of the good Doctor.
Now that her brilliant career (as it seemed to many of the staid folk of
Ashfield) was so suddenly closed, the Doctor could not forbear taking
advantage of the opportunity to press home upon his people, under the
influences of this sombre funeral procession, the vanities of the world
and the fleeting character of its wealth and pride. "We may build
palaces," said he, (and people thought of the elegant Bowrigg mansion,)
"but God locks the door and assigns to us a narrower home; we may court
the intoxicating air of cities, but its breath, in a day, may blast our
strength, and, except He keep us, may blast our souls." Never had the
Doctor been more eloquent, and never had he so moved his people. After
the evening prayer, Adele stole into the study of the Doctor, and
said,--
"New Papa, it was well I stayed with you."