her needle-work with a resolute composure that seemed to imply, "The
Johns' view of the case has been stated; let us now listen to what Mr.
Maverick may have to say."
For a while her fingers plied nimbly; but there came a pause,--an
exclamation of amazement, and her work (it was a bit of embroidery for
poor Adele) was dashed upon the floor.
"Benjamin, this is monstrous! The French hussy! Reuben, indeed!"
The Doctor returned composedly to his reading.
"No, brother, I want to hear no more. What a wretch this Maverick must
be!"
"A sinner, doubtless, Eliza; yet not a sinner before all others."
The spinster was now striding up and down the room in a state of
extraordinary excitement. With a strange inconsequence, she seized the
letter from the Doctor's hands, and read it through to the end.
"I am bewildered, Benjamin. To think that the Johns' name should be
associated with such shame and guilt!"
"Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased," murmured the Doctor.
But the spinster was in no mood for listening to Scriptural
applications.
"And that he should dare to ask us to cloak for him this great scandal!"
continued she, wrathfully.
"For the child's sake, Eliza,--for poor Adaly."
"While I am mistress of your household, brother, I shall try to maintain
its dignity and respectability. Do you consider, Benjamin, how much
these are necessary to your influence?"
"Without doubt, Eliza; yet I cannot perceive how these would suffer by
dealing gently with this unfortunate child. A very tender affection for
her has grown upon me, Eliza; it would sadden me grievously, if she were
to go out from among us bearing unkind thoughts."
"And is your affection strong enough, Benjamin, to make you forget all
social proprieties, and the honorable name of our family, and to wish
her stay here as the wife of Reuben?"
The Doctor may have winced a little at this; and possibly a touch of
worldly pride entered into his reply.
"In this matter, Eliza, I think the wish of Maverick is to be
respected."
"Pah! For my part, I respect much more the Johns' name."
As the spinster retired to her room, after being overheated in the
discussion, in which the calmness of the Doctor, and the news he had
communicated, contributed almost equally to her frenzy, she cast a look,
in passing, upon the bed-chamber of Adele. There were all the delicate
fixtures, in which she had taken such a motherly pride,--the spotless
curtains, the cherished vases, and certain toilette adornments,--her
gifts,--by each one of which she had hoped to win a point in the
accomplishment of her ambitious project. In the flush of her
disappointment she could almost have torn down the neatly adjusted
drapery, and put to confusion this triumph of her housewifely skill. But
cooler thoughts succeeded; and, passing on into her own chamber, she
threw herself into her familiar rocking-chair and entered upon a long
train of reflections, whose result will very likely have their bearing
upon the development of our story.
XLIV.
About this time, Phil Elderkin had come back from his trip to the West
Indies,--not a little bronzed by the fierce suns he had met there, but
stalwart as ever, with his old free, frank manner, to which he had
superadded a little of that easy confidence and self-poise which come of
wide intercourse with the world. All the village greeted him kindly; for
there was not a man or a woman in it who bore Phil Elderkin a
grudge,--unless it may have been the schoolmaster, who, knowing what a
dullard Phil had been at his books, had to bear some measure of the
reproach which belonged to his slow progress. But there are some young
gentlemen (not, however, so many as dull fellows are apt to think) who
ripen best by a reading of the world, instead of books; and Phil
Elderkin was eminently one of them. The old Squire took a pride he had
never anticipated in walking down the street arm in arm with his
stalwart son, (whose support, indeed, the old gentleman was beginning to
need,) and in watching the admiring glances of the passers-by, and of
such old cronies as stopped to shake hands and pass a word or two with
the Squire's youngest boy. There is this pleasant feature about such
quiet, out-of-the-way New England towns, (or was twenty-five years
since,) that the old people never forget to feel a pride in the young
men, who, having gone out from their borders to try their fortunes, win
any measure of success. Of course they are apt to attribute it, with a
pleasant vanity, to their own good advice or example; but this by no
means detracts from the cordiality of their praises. Phil won all
this,--since it was hinted, on the best possible authority, that he had
tried certain business chances on his own account in the West Indies,
which promised the grandest success.
Even the Doctor had said, "You have reason to be proud of your boy,
Squire. I trust that in time he may join piety to prudence."
"Hope he may, hope he may, Doctor," said the Squire. "Fine stout lad,
isn't he, Doctor?"
Of course Phil had met early with Reuben, and with the fresh spirit of
their old school-days. Phil had very likely been advised of the
experiences which had brought Reuben again to Ashfield, and of the
questionable result,--for even this had become subject of village
gossip; but of such matters there was very coy mention on the part of
young Elderkin. Phil's world-knowledge had given him wise hints on this
score. And as for Reuben, the encounter with such frank, outspoken
heartiness and manliness as belonged to his old school-friend was, after
his weary mental struggle of the last few months, immensely refreshing.
"Phil, my good fellow, your coming is a great godsend to me. I've been
worrying at the theologies here: but it's blind work. I think I shall
get back to business again."
"But you haven't made it blind for Adele, Reuben.--so they tell me."
"And it is true. Faith, Phil, if I could win her beautiful trusts I
would give my right arm,--indeed, I would."
"But she's not blue," said Phil; "she's as cheery and mirthful as I ever
saw her."
"There's the beauty of it," said Reuben. "Many women carry their faith
with a face as long and as dull as a sermon. But, by Jove, her face
bubbles over with laughter as easily as it ever did."
Sister Rose had, of course, met Phil on his return most gushingly. There
is something very beautiful in that warm sisterly affection which at a
certain age can put no bounds to its admiring pride. There is a fading
away of it as the years progress, and as the sisters drop into little
private clamorous circles of their own, and look out upon other people
through the spectacles of their husband's eyes,--as they are pretty apt
to do; but for a long period following upon the school age it is very
tender and beautiful. If Phil had been coarse, or selfish, or awkward,
or ten times the sinner in any way that he was, Rose would most surely
have found some charming little excuse for each and every sin, and
delighted in reflecting upon him the glow of her own purity.
Of course she insists coyly upon his making the village rounds with her.
Those intellectual ladies, the Misses Hapgood, must have an opportunity
of admiring his grand air, and the easy manner he has brought back with
him of entering a parlor, or of passing the compliments of the day: and,
indeed, those respectable old ladies do pay him the honor of keeping him
in waiting, until they can arrange their best frontlets, and present
themselves in their black silks and in kerchiefs wet with lavender. Now
little Rose maintains an admiring and eager silence while that rare
brother astonishes these good Ashfield ladies with the great splendors
of his walk and conversation.
Then with what a bewildering success the traveller, under convoy of the
delighted Rose, comes down upon the family of the Tourtelots! What an
elaborate toilette Almira matures for his reception! and how the Dame
nervously dusts and redusts her bombazine at sight of his grand manner,
as she peeps through the half-opened blinds!
The Deacon is not, indeed, so much "taken off the hooks" by Phil, but
entertains him in the old way.
"Pooty well on't for beef cattle in Cuby, Philip?"
And Rose's eyes glisten, as Brother Philip goes on to set forth some of
the wonders of the crops, and the culture.
"Waael, they're smart farmers, I've heerd," says the Deacon; "but we're
makin' improvements here in Ashfield. Doaen't know as you've seen Square
Wilkinson's new string o' wall he's been a-buildin' all the way between
his home pastur' and the west medders?"
Phil has not.
"Waael, it's wuth seein'. I doaen't _know_ what they pretend to have in
Cuby; but in my opinion, there a'n't such another string o' stone fence,
not in the whole caounty!"
And Phil has had his little private talks with Rose,--about Adele, among
other people.
"She is more charming than ever," Rose had said.
"I suppose so."
And there had been a pause here.
"I suppose Reuben is as tender upon her as ever," Phil had said at last,
in his off-hand way.
"He has been very devoted; but I'm not sure that it means anything,
Phil, dear."
"I should think it meant a great deal," said Phil.
"I mean," continued Rose, reflectingly, and with some embarrassment of
speech, "I don't think Adele speaks of Reuben as if--as I
should--think--
"As you would, Rose,--is that it?"
"For shame, Phil!"
And Phil begged pardon with a kiss.
"Do you think, Phil," said Rose, concealing a little fluttering of the
heart under very smoothly spoken words, "do you think that Reuben really
loves Adele?"
"Think so? To be sure, Rose. How can he help it? It's enough for me to
see her as I do, odd whiles in our parlor, or walking up and down the
garden with you, Rose; if I were to meet her every night and morning, as
Reuben must, I should go mad."
"Aha!" said Rose, laughingly; "that's not the way lovers talk,--at
least, not in books. I think you are safe, Phil. And yet" (with a
soberer air) "I did think, Phil, one while, that you thought very, very
often, and a great deal, of Adele; and I was not sorry."
"Did you, Rose?" said Phil, eagerly; "did you truly? Then I'll tell you
a secret, Rose,--mind, Rose, a great secret, never to be lisped,--not to
mother even. I did love Adele as far back as I can remember. You know
the strange little French hat she used to wear? Well, I used to draw it
on my slate at school, Rose; it was all I could draw that belonged to
her. Many's the time, when, if a boy came near, I would dash in some
little flourishes about it, and call it a basket or a coal-scoop; but
all the while, for me, her little dark eyes were shining under it. But
there was Reuben,--I told him I thought Suke Boody the prettiest girl in
Ashfield, but it wasn't true,--and he beat me in reading and writing,
and everything, I think, but fisticuffs."
"Did he?" said Rose, with the prettily arched brow which mostly
accompanied only her mischievous sallies; and it seemed to Phil
afterward that she would have resented the statement, if he had made it
concerning any other young fellow in Ashfield.
"Yes, indeed," continued he. "I knew he must beat me out and out with
Adele. Do you remember, Rose, how you told me once that he had sent a
gift of furs to her? Well, Rose, I had my own little gift hidden away
for her for that same New-Year's day, and I burned it. Those furs kept
me awake an awful time. And when I went away, Rose, I prayed that I
might learn to forget her; but there was never a letter of yours that
came with her name in it, (and most of them had it, you know,) but I saw
her as plainly as ever, with her arm laced in yours, as I used to see
you many a time from my window, strolling down the garden. And now that
I have come back, Rose, it's the same confounded thing. By Jove, I feel
as if I could pitch into Reuben, as I used to do at school. But then
he's a good fellow, and a good friend of mine, I'm sure."
"I'm sure he is," said Rose. "But, Phil," continued she, meditatively,
"it seems to me, if I were a man, and loved a woman as you love Adele, I
should find some way of letting her know it."
"Would you, Rosy? Do you think there's a ghost of a chance?"
"I don't know, Phil: Adele is not one who talks of such things."
"Nor you, I think, Rose."
"Of course not, Phil." And after a little hesitation, "Of whom should I
talk, pray?"
Now it happened that this private conversation took place upon the same
day on which had transpired the interview we have already chronicled
between the Doctor and Miss Johns. Reuben and Adele were to pass the
evening at the Elderkins'. Adele was not of a temper to be greatly
disturbed by the rumor at which the Doctor had hinted of a lost fortune.
(We write, it must be remembered, of a time nearly thirty years gone
by.) Indeed, as she tripped along beside Reuben, it seemed to him that
she had never been in a more jocular and vivacious humor. A reason for
this (and it is what, possibly, many of our readers may count a very
unnatural one) lay in the letter which she had that day received from
her father, in which Maverick, in alluding to a possible _affaire du
coeur_ in connection with Reuben, had counselled her, with great
earnestness, to hold her affections in reserve, and, above all, to
control most rigidly any fancy which she might entertain for the son of
their friend the Doctor.
It amused Adele; for Reuben had been so totally undemonstrative in
matters of sentiment, (possibly keeping his deeper feelings in reserve,)
that Adele had felt over and over a girl's mischievous propensity to
provoke it. Not that she was in any sense heartless; not that she did
not esteem him, and feel a keen sense of gratitude; but his kindest and
largest favors were always attended with such demureness and reticence
of manner as piqued her womanly vanity. For these reasons there was
something exhilarating to her in the intimation conveyed by Maverick's
letters, that she was the party, after all, upon whose decision must
rest the peace of mind of the two, and that she must cultivate the
virtue of treating him with coolness.
Possibly it would have been an easy virtue to cultivate, even though
Reuben's attentions had shown the warmth which the blood of nineteen
feminine years craves in a lover; but as the matter stood, there was
something amusing to her in Maverick's injunction. As if there were any
danger! As if there could be! Should it grow serious some day, it would
be time enough then to consider her good papa's injunction; very
possibly she would pay the utmost heed to it, since a respect for Mr.
Maverick's opinions and advice was almost a part of Adele's religion.
XLV.
We left Miss Eliza Johns in her chamber, swaying back and forth in her
rocking-chair, and resolutely confronting the dire news which the Doctor
had communicated. What was to be done? Never had so serious a problem
been presented to her for solution. There were both worldly and
religious motives, as the spinster reckoned them, for plucking out of
her heart all the growing tenderness which she had begun to feel toward
Adele; and the sudden discomfiture of that engaging, ambitious scheme
which she had fondled so long prompted a feeling of resentment which was
even worse than worldly.
How would you have treated the matter, Madam? Would your Christian
charities have shrunk from the ordeal? But whatever might have been the
other sins of the spinster, there was in her no disposition to shrink
from the conclusions to which her logic of propriety and respectability
might lead. Adele was to be discarded, but not suddenly. All her art
must be employed to disabuse Reuben of any lingering tenderness. The
Doctor's old prejudice against French blood must be worked to its
utmost. But there must be no violent clamor,--above all, no disclosure
of the humiliating truth. Maverick (the false man!) must be instructed
that it would be agreeable to the Johns family--nay, that their sense of
dignity demanded--that he should reclaim his child at an early day. On
this last score, it might be necessary, indeed, to practise very adroit
management with the Doctor; but for the rest, she had the amplest
confidence in her own activity and discretion.
She was not the woman to sleep upon her plans, when once they were
decided on; and she had no sooner forecast her programme than she took
advantage of the lingering twilight to arrange her toilette for a call
upon the Elderkins. Of course she led off the Doctor in her trail. The
spinster's "marching orders," as he jocularly termed them, the good man
was as incapable of resisting as if he had been twenty years a husband.
In a few swift words she unfolded her design.
"And now, Benjamin, don't, pray, let your sentiment get the better of
you, in regard to this French girl. Think of the proprieties in the
case, Benjamin,--the proprieties,"--which she enforced by a little shake
of her forefinger.
Whenever it came to a question of the "proprieties," the Doctor was
conscious of his weakness. What, indeed, could the poor man know about
the proprieties, as set forth by Miss Johns, that he should presume to
argue against them? What, indeed, can any man do, when a woman bases
herself on the "proprieties"?
It was summer weather, and the windows of the hospitable Elderkin
mansion were wide open. As the Doctor and spinster drew near, little
gusts of cheery music came out to greet their ears. For, at this time,
Miss Almira had her rival pianos about the village; and the pretty Rose
had been taught a deft way of touching the "first-class" instrument,
which the kind-hearted Squire had bestowed upon her. And, if it must be
told, little sparkling waltzes had from time to time waked the parlor
solitude, and the kind Mistress Elderkin had winked at little furtive
parlor-dances on the part of Rose and Adele,--they had so charmed the
old Squire, and set all his blood (as he said, with a gallant kiss upon
the brow of Mrs. Elderkin) flowing in the old school-boy currents. Now
it happened upon this very evening, that the Squire, though past seventy
now, was in the humor to see a good old-fashioned frolic, and, Rose
rattling off some crazy waltz, Phil, at a hint from the old gentleman,
had taken possession of Adele, and was showing off with a good deal of
grace, and more spirit, the dancing-steps of which he had had experience
with the Spanish senoritas.
Dame Tourtelot, who chanced to be present, wore a long face, which (it
is conceivable) the hearty old Squire enjoyed as much as the dancing.
But Mrs. Elderkin must have looked with a warm maternal pride upon the
fine athletic figure of her boy, as he went twirling down the floor,
with that graceful figure of Adele.
Upon the very midst of it, however, the Doctor and Miss Johns came like
a cloud. The fingers of Rose rested idly on the keys. Adele, who was gay
beyond her wont, alone of all the company could not give over her
light-heartedness on the instant: so she makes away to greet the
Doctor,--Miss Johns standing horrified.
"New Papa, you have surprised us. Phil was showing me some new steps. Do
you think it very, very wrong?"
"Adaly! Adaly!"
"Ah, you dear old man, it isn't wrong;--say it isn't wrong."
By this time the Squire has come forward.
"Ah, Doctor, young folks will be young folks; but I think you won't have
a quarrel with Mrs. Elderkin yonder. My dear," (addressing Mrs.
Elderkin,) "you must set this matter right with the Doctor. We must keep
our young people in his good books."
"The good books are not kept by me, Squire," said the parson.
Reuben, who had been loitering about Rose, and who, to do him justice,
had seen Phil's gallant attention to Adele without one spark of
jealousy, was specially interested in this interruption of the
festivities. In his present state of mind, he was most eager to know how
far the evening's hilarity would be imputed as a sin to the new convert,
and how far religious severities (if she met any) would control the
ardor of Adele. The Doctor's face softened, even while he talked with
the charming errant,--Reuben observed that; but with Aunt Eliza the case
was different. Never had he seen such a threatening darkness in her
face.
"We have interrupted a ball, I fear," she said to the hostess, in a tone
which was as virulent as a masculine oath.
"Oh! no! no!" said Mrs. Elderkin. "Indeed, now, you must not scold Adele
too much; 't was only a bit of the Squire's foolery."
"Oh, certainly not; she is quite her own mistress. I should be very
sorry to consider myself responsible for all her tastes."
Reuben, hearing this, felt his heart leap toward Adele in a way which
the spinster's praises had never provoked.
Dame Tourtelot here says, in her most aggravating manner,--
"I think she dances beautiful, Miss Johns. She dooz yer credit, upon my
word she dooz."
And thereupon there followed a somewhat lively altercation between those
two sedate ladies,--in the course of which a good deal of stinging
mockery was covered with unctuous compliment. But the spinster did not
lose sight of her chief aim, to wit, the refusal of all responsibility
as attaching to the conduct of Adele, and a most decided intimation that
the rumors which associated her name with Reuben were unfounded, and
were likely to prove altogether false.
This last hint was a revelation to the gossipping Dame; there had been
trouble, then, at the parsonage; things were clearly not upon their old
footing. Was it Adele? Was it Reuben? Yet never had either shown greater
cheer than on this very night. But the Dame none the less eagerly had
communicated her story, before the evening closed, to Mrs.
Elderkin,--who received it doubtingly,--to Rose, who heard it with
wonder and a pretty confusion,--and to the old Squire, who said only,
"Pooh! pooh! it's a lover's quarrel; we shall be all straight
to-morrow."
Adele, by her own choice, was convoyed home, when the evening was over,
by the good Doctor, and had not only teased him into pardon of her wild
mirth, before they had reached the parsonage-gate, but had kindled in
him a glow of tenderness that made him utterly forgetful of the terrible
news of the day. Reuben and the spinster, as they followed, talked of
Rose; never had Aunt Eliza spoken so warmly of her charms; but before
him was tripping along, in the moonlight, the graceful figure of Adele,
clinging to the old gentleman's arm, and it is doubtful if his eye did
not feast more upon that vision than his ear upon the new praises of the
spinster.
Yet, for all that, Rose was really charming. The young gentlemen, it
would seem, hardly knew his own heart; and he had a wondrous dream that
night. There was a church, (such as he had seen in the city,) and a
delicately gloved hand, which lay nestling in his; and Mr. Maverick,
oddly enough, appeared to give away a bride, and all waited only for the
ceremony, which the Doctor (with his old white hat and cane) refused to
perform; whereat Phil's voice was heard bursting out in a great laugh;
and the face of Rose, too, appeared; but it was only as a saint upon a
painted window. And yet the face of the saint upon the window was more
distinct than anything in his dream.
The next morning found Miss Eliza harsh and cold. Even the constrained
smile with which she had been used to qualify her "good morning" for
Adele was wanting; and when the family prayers were said, in which the
good Doctor had pleaded, with unction, that the Christian grace of
charity might reign in all hearts, the poor girl had sidled up to Miss
Eliza, and put her hand in the spinster's,--
"You think our little frolic last night to be very wrong, I dare say?"
"Oh, no," said the spinster. "I dare say Mr. Maverick and your French
relatives would approve."
It was not so much the language as the tone which smote on poor Adele,
and brought the tears welling into her eyes.
Reuben, seeing it all, and forgetful of the good parson's plea, gnawed
his lip to keep back certain very harsh utterances.
"Don't think of it, Ady," said he, watching his chance a little later;
"the old lady is in one of her blue moods to-day."
"Do you think I did wrong, Reuben?" said Adele, earnestly.
"I? Wrong, Adele? Pray, what should I have to say about the right or
wrong? and I think the old ladies are beginning to think I have no clear
idea of the difference between them."