XXXII.
In the summer of 1837, Maverick, who had continued eminently successful, determined to sail for America, and to make good his promise of a visit to the Doctor and Adèle. It may appear somewhat inexplicable that a father should have deferred to so late a day the occasion of meeting and greeting an only child. That his attachment was strong, his letters, full of expressions of affection, had abundantly shown; but the engrossments of business had been unceasing, and he had met them with that American abandonment of other thought, which, while it insures special success, is too apt to make shipwreck of all besides. He was living, moreover, without experience of those tender family ties which ripen a man's domestic affections, and make the absence of a child—most of all, an only child—a daily burden.
Maverick shows no more appearance of age than when we saw him ten years since, placing his little offering of flowers upon the breakfast-table of poor Rachel,—an excellently well-preserved man,—dressed always in that close conformity to the existing mode which of itself gives a young air,—brushing his hair sedulously so as to cover the growing spot of baldness,—regulating all his table indulgences with the same precision with which he governs his business,—using all the appliances of flesh-brushes and salt-baths to baffle any insidious ailment,—a strong, hale, cheery man, who would have ranked by a score (judging from his exterior) younger than the Doctor. In our time the clerical fraternity are putting a somewhat wiser valuation upon those aids to firm muscle and good digestion which forty years ago in New England their brethren gave over contemptuously to men of the world. What fearful, pinching dyspepsias, what weak, trembling knees and aching sides have been carried into pulpits, and have been strained to the propagation of spiritual doctrine, under the absurd belief that these bodies of ours were not given us to be cherished! As if a Gabriel would not need clean limbs and a firm hand in a grapple with the ministers of misrule!
Shall we look for a moment at the French home which Maverick is leaving? A compact country-house of yellow stone upon a niche of the hills that overlook the blue Bay of Lyons; a green arbor over the walk leading to the door; clumps of pittosporum and of jessamine, with two or three straggling fig-trees, within the inclosure; a billiard-room and salle-à-manger upon the ground-floor, and au premier a salon, opening, by its long, heavily draped windows, upon a balcony shielded with striped awning. Here on many an evening, when the night wind comes in from the sea, Maverick lounges sipping at his demi-tasse, whiffing at a fragrant Havana, (imported to order,) and chatting with some friend he has driven out from the stifling streets of Marseilles about the business chances of the morrow. A tall, agile Alsatian woman, with a gilt crucifix about her neck, and a great deal of the peasant beauty still in her face, glides into the salon from time to time, acting apparently in the capacity of mistress of the establishment—respectfully courteous to Maverick and his friend, yet showing something more than the usual familiarity of a dependent housekeeper.
The friend who sits with him enjoying the night breeze and those rare Havanas is an open-faced, middle-aged companion of the city, with whom Maverick has sometimes gone to a bourgeois home near to Montauban, where a wrinkle-faced old Frenchman in velvet skull-cap—the father of his friend—has received him with profound obeisance, brought out for him his best cru of St. Peray, and bored him with long stories of the times of 1798, in which he was a participant. Yet the home-scenes there, with the wrinkled old father and the stately mamma for partners at whist or boston, have been grateful to Maverick, as reminders of other home-scenes long passed out of reach; and he has opened his heart to this son of the house.
"Monsieur Papiol," (it is the Alsatian woman who is addressing the friend of Maverick,) "ask, then, why it is Monsieur Frank is going to America."
"Ah, Lucille, do you not know, then, there is a certain Puritan belle he goes to look after?"
"Pah!" says the Alsatian, "Monsieur is not so young!"
Maverick puffs at his cigar thoughtfully,—a thoughtfulness that does not encourage the Alsatian to other speech,—and in a moment more she is gone.
"Seriously, Maverick," says Papiol, when they are alone again, "what will you do with this Puritan daughter of yours?"
"Keep her from ways of wickedness," said Maverick, without losing his thoughtfulness.
"Excellent!" said the friend, laughing; "but you will hardly bring her to this home of yours, then?"
"Hardly to this country of yours, Pierre."
"Nonsense, Maverick! You will be too proud of her, mon ami. I'm sure of that. You'll never keep her cribbed yonder. We shall see you escorting her some day up and down the Prado, and all the fine young fellows hereabout paying court to the belle Americaine. My faith! I shall be wishing myself twenty years younger!"
Maverick is still very thoughtful.
"What is it, my good fellow? Is it—that the family question gives annoyance among your friends yonder?"
"On the contrary," says Maverick,—and reaching a file of letters in his cabinet, he lays before his companion that fragment of the Doctor's epistle which had spoken of the rosary, and of his discovery that it had been the gift of the mother, "so near, and he trusted dear a relative."
"Mais, comme il est innocent, your good old friend there!"
"I wish to God, Pierre, I were as innocent as he," said Maverick, and tossed his cigar over the edge of the balcony.
Upon his arrival at New York, Maverick did not communicate directly with the Doctor, enjoying the thought, very likely, of surprising his old friend by his visit, very much as he had surprised him many years before. He takes boat to a convenient point upon the shore of the Sound, and thence chooses to approach the town that holds what is most dear to him by an old, lumbering stage-coach, which still plies across the hills, as twenty years before, through the parish of Ashfield. The same patches of tasselled corn, (it is August,) the same outlying bushy pastures, the same reeling walls of mossy cobble-stones meet his eye that he remembered on his previous visit. But he looks upon all wayside views carelessly,—as one seeing, and yet not seeing them.
His daughter Adèle, she who parted from him a toy-child eight years gone, whom a new ribbon would amuse in that day, must have changed. That she has not lost her love of him, those letters have told; that she has not lost her girlish buoyancy, he knows. She must be tall now, and womanly in stature, he thinks. She promised to be graceful. That he will love her, he feels; but will he be proud of her? A fine figure, a sweet, womanly voice, an arch look, a winning smile, a pretty coquetry of glance,—will he find these? And does he not build his pride on hope of these? Will she be clever? Will there be traces, ripened in these last years, of the mother,—offensive traces possibly?
But Maverick is what the world calls a philosopher; he hums, unconsciously, a snatch of a French song, by which he rouses the attention of the spectacled old lady, (the only other occupant of the coach,) with whom he has already made some conversational ventures, and who has just finished a lunch which she has drawn from her capacious work-bag. Reviving now under the influence of Maverick's chance fragment of song, and dusting the crumbs from her lap, she says,—
"We don't have very good singin' now in the Glostenbury meetin'."
"Ah!" says Maverick.
"No: Squire Peter's darters have bin gittin' married, and the young girls ha'n't come on yit."
"You attend the Glostenbury Church, then, Madam?" says Maverick, who enjoys the provincialisms of her speech, like a whiff of the lilac perfume which he once loved.
"In gineral, Sir; but we come down odd spells to hear Dr. Johns, who preaches at the Ashfield meetin'-house. He's a real smart man."
"Ah! And this Dr. Johns has a family, I think?"
"Waäl, the Doctor lost his wife, you see, quite airly; and Miss Johns—that's his sister—has bin a-keepin' house for him ever sence. I'm not acquainted with her, but I've heerd she's a very smart woman. And there's a French girl that came to live with 'em, goin' on now seven or eight year, who was a reg'lar Roman Catholic; but I kind o' guess the old folks has tamed her down afore now."
"Ah! I should think that a Roman Catholic would have but a poor chance in a New England village."
"Not much of a chance anywhere, I guess," said the old lady, wiping her spectacles, "if folks only preached the Gospil."
Even now the coach is creaking along through the outskirts of Ashfield; and presently the driver's horn wakes the echoes of the hills, while the horses plunge forward at a doubled pace. The eyes of Maverick are intent upon every house, every open window, every moving figure.
"It's a most a beautiful town," said the old lady.
"Charming, charming, Madam!"—and even as he spoke, Maverick's eye fastens upon two figures before them with a strange yearning in his gaze,—two figures of almost equal height: a little, coquettish play of ribbons about the head of one, which in the other are absent; a girlish, elastic step to one, that does not belong to the other.
Is there something in the gait, something in the poise of the head, to which the memory of Maverick so cleaves? It is, indeed, Adèle, taking her noon-day walk with Madame Arles. A lithe figure and a buoyant step, holding themselves tenderly in check for the slower pace of the companion. Maverick's gaze keeps fast upon them,—fast upon them, until the old coach is fairly abreast,—fast upon them, until by a glance back he has caught full sight of the faces.
"Mon Dieu!" he exclaims, and throws himself back in the coach.
"Häow?" says the old lady.
"Mon Dieu, it is she!" continues Maverick, speaking under intense excitement to himself, as if unconscious of any other presence.
"Häow?" urged the old lady, more persistently.
"Damn it, nothing, Madam!"
And the old lady drew the strings of her bag closely, and looked full out of the opposite window.
Within, a half-hour the stage-coach arrived at the Eagle Tavern. Maverick demanded a chamber, and asked to see the landlord. The stout, blear-eyed Boody presently made his appearance.
"How can I reach New York soonest, my friend?"
Mr. Boody consulted his watch.
"Well, by fast driving you might catch the night-boat on the river."
"Can you get me there in time?"
"Well, Sir," reflecting a moment, "I guess I can."
"Very good. Have your carriage ready as soon as possible."
And within an hour, Maverick, dejected, and with an anxious air, was on his return to the city.
Three days after, the Doctor summons Adèle into his study.
"Adaly, here is a letter from your father, which I wish you to read."
The girl takes it eagerly, and at the first line exclaims,—
"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 Adèle 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 Adèle 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 Adèle before your townsfolk shall have talked the matter over. Pray ask your good sister to prepare the wardrobe of Adèle 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."
Adèle 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, chère 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 Adèle.
And of Reuben neither of them said anything more.
Then with what a great storm of embraces Adèle 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, Adèle; and I suppose you'll forget us all here in Ashfield."
"No, you don't suppose any such thing, Mister Philip," says Adèle, 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, Adèle."
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.