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 townspeople. Her
sympathies had run out 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 didn'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,--isn'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 come 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. Isn'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 wrongdoers, 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 fulness 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 bedtime, 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!"