"He is in New York! Why doesn't he come here?"
* * * * *
"MY DEAR JOHNS," (so his letter runs,) "I had counted on surprising you
completely by dropping in upon you at your parsonage, (so often in my
thought,) at Ashfield; but circumstances have prevented. Can I ask so
large a favor of you as to bring my dear Adele to meet me here? If your
parochial duties forbid this utterly, can you not see her safely on the
river-boat, and I will meet her at the wharf in New York? But, above
all, I hope you will come with her. I fancy her now so accomplished a
young lady, that there will be needed some ceremony of presentation at
your hands; besides which, I want a long talk with you. We are both many
years older since we have met; you have had your trials, and I have
escaped with only a few rubs. Let us talk them over. Slip away quietly,
if you can; beyond Adele and your good sister, can't you conceal your
errand to the city? Your country villages are so prone to gossip, that I
would wish to clasp my little Adele before your townsfolk shall have
talked the matter over. Pray ask your good sister to prepare the
wardrobe of Adele for a month or two of absence, since I mean she shall
be my attendant on a little jaunt through the country. I long to greet
her; and your grave face, my dear Johns, is always a welcome sight."
* * * * *
Adele is in a fever of excitement. In her happy glee she would have gone
out to tell all the village what pleasure was before her. Even the
caution she receives from the Doctor cannot control her spirits
absolutely. She makes her little adieux, for a while, under a certain
control that surprises herself. But when, in her light-hearted ramble,
she comes to say good-bye to Madame Arles, toward whom her sympathies
seem to flow in spite of herself, she cannot forbear saying, "What harm,
pray, can there be in this?"
"Such a secret, _chere Madame_! I am going to New York, you know, with
Dr. Johns, the good man! and--such a secret! don't whisper it!--Papa has
come, and has sent for me, and we are to travel together!" And she
sprang at Madame Arles, and, clasping her arms around her neck, kissed
her with a vehemence that might have startled even a less excitable
person.
"Is it possible, my child! I wish you all joy, with all my heart."
And as if the exuberance of the wish had started her old ailment into
new vigor, she has clasped her hands wildly over that bosom, to stay, if
it might be, those inordinate throbbings.
But the adieux are at last all spoken. Mrs. Elderkin had said, "My
child, I rejoice with you; and if I never see you again,"--(for she had
her suspicions that the sudden movement had some connection with the
wishes of her father,)--"if I never see you again, I hope you may keep
always the simplicity and the love of truth I believe you have now."
Rose, almost bewildered by the gleeful excitement of her friend, enters
eagerly into all her arrangements, trips into her chamber to assist in
her packing, insists, over and over, that she must write _often_, and
_long_ letters.
Girls of sixteen or thereabout are prone to expectancies of this kind.
Their friendships cover reams. Their promises of never-dying attachment
are so full, so rich! But as the years drop these girl friends into
their separate spheres, with a new world of interests, domestic
buffetings, nursery clamor, growing up around them, the tender
correspondence, before they know it, is gone by. And the budget of sweet
and gushing school-day epistles is cut through and through with the
ruthless family shears to kindle the family lamp or to light the cigar
of some exacting and surly _pater-familias_.
"I suppose you will see Reuben in the city," Rose had said, in a chance
way.
"Oh, I hope so!" said Adele.
And of Reuben neither of them said anything more.
Then with what a great storm of embraces Adele parted from Rose! A
parting only for a month, perhaps: both knew that. But the friendship of
young girls can build a week into a monstrous void. God bless their dear
hearts, and, if the wish be not wicked, keep them always as fresh!
Phil, who is a sturdy and somewhat timid lover, without knowing it,
affects an air of composure, and says,--
"I hope you'll have a good time, Adele; and I suppose you'll forget us
all here in Ashfield."
"No, you don't suppose any such thing, Mister Philip," says Adele,
roundly, and with a frank, full look at him that makes the color come to
his face; and he laughs, but not easily.
"Well, good bye, Adele."
She takes his hand, eagerly.
"Good bye, Phil; you 're a dear, good fellow; and you've been very kind
to me."
Possibly there may have been a little water gathering in her eye as she
spoke. It is certain that the upper lip of Phil trembled as he strolled
away. After walking a few paces out of sight and hearing, snapping his
fingers nervously the while, he used some bad interjectional language,
which we shall express more moderately.
"_Hang_ it, I'm sorry, _deused_ sorry! I didn't think I liked her so."
----Walking, with head down, snapping those fingers of his,--past his
own gate a long way, (though it is full dinner hour,)--mumbling again,--
"By George! I believe I ought to have said something; but, _hang_ it,
what could a fellow say?"
He hears the coach driving off, and with a sudden thought rushes home,
enters quietly, goes up the stairs, makes a feint as if he were entering
his chamber, but passes on tiptoe into the garret, opens the roof-door,
and from the housetop catches a last glimpse of the stage-coach rattling
down the south road. A wood hides it presently.
"Confound it all!" he says, with great heartiness, and goes down to
dinner.
"My son, you haven't a good appetite," says the kindly mother.
"I ate a big lunch," says Phil.
He knew it was a whopper.