XLIII.
The foreign letters rarely came singly; and Adèle had already accomplished the reading of her own missive, in which Maverick had spoken of his having taken occasion to address, by the same mail, a line to the Doctor on matters of business, "in regard to which," (he had said,) "don't, my dear Adèle, be too inquisitive, even if you observe that it is cause of some perplexity to the good Doctor. Indeed, in such case, I hope you will contribute to his cheer, as I am sure you have often done. We owe him a large debt of gratitude, my child, and I rely upon you to add your thankfulness to mine, and speak for both."
"You look troubled, New Papa," said Adèle. "Can I help you? Eh, Doctor?"
And she came toward him in her playful manner, and patted the old gentleman on the shoulder, while he sat with his face buried in his hands.
"I don't think papa writes very cheerfully, do you? Eh,—Doctor—Benjamin—Johns?" (tapping him with more spirit.)—"Why, New Papa, what does this mean?"
For the Doctor had raised his head now, and regarded her with a look of mingled yearning and distrust that was wholly new to her.
"Pray, New Papa, what is it?"
The old gentlemen—so utterly guileless—was puzzled for an answer; but his ingenuity came to his relief at length.
"No, Adaly, your father does not write cheerfully,—certainly not; he speaks of the probable loss of his fortune."
Now Adèle, with her parsonage training, had really very little idea of fortune.
"That means I won't be rich, New Papa, I suppose. But I don't believe it; he will have money enough, I'm sure. It don't disturb me, New Papa,—not one whit."
The Doctor was so poor a hand at duplicity that he hardly knew what to say, but meantime was keeping his eye with the same dazed look upon the charming Adèle.
"You look so oddly, New Papa,—indeed you do! You have some sermon in your head, now haven't you, that I have broken in upon?—some sermon about—about—let us see."
And she moved toward his desk, where the letter of Maverick still lay unfolded.
The Doctor, lost in thought, did not observe her movement until she had the letter fairly in her hand; then he seized it with a suddenness of gesture that instantly caught the attention of Adèle.
A swift, deep color ran over her face.
"It is for my eye only, Adaly," said the Doctor, excitedly, folding it and placing it in his pocket.
Adèle, with her curiosity strangely piqued, said,—
"I remember now, papa told me as much."
"What did he tell you, my child?"
"Not to be too curious about some business affairs of which he had written you."
"Ah!" said the Doctor, with a sigh of relief.
"But why shouldn't I be? Tell me, New Papa," (toying now with the silvered hair upon the forehead of the old gentleman,) "is he really in trouble?"
"No new trouble, my child,—no new trouble."
For a moment Adèle's thought flashed upon that mystery of the mother she had never seen, and an uncontrollable sadness came over her.
"Yet if there be bad news, why shouldn't I know it?" said she. "I must know it some day."
"'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" said the Doctor, gravely. "And if bad news should ever come to you, my dear Adaly,—though I have none to tell you now,—may you have strength to bear it like a Christian!"
"I will! I can!" said she, with a great glow upon her face.
Never more than in that moment had the heart of the old gentleman warmed toward Adèle. Not by any possibility could he make himself the willing instrument of punishing the sin of the father through this trustful and confiding girl. Nay, he felt, as he looked upon her, that he could gladly make of himself a shelter for her against such contempt or neglect as the world might have in store.
When Reuben came presently to summon Adèle to their evening engagement at the Elderkins', the Doctor followed their retreating figures, as they strolled out of the parsonage-gate, with a new and strange interest. Most inscrutable and perplexing was the fact, that this outcast child, whom scarce one in his parish would have been willing to admit to the familiarities of home,—this daughter of infidel France, about whose mind the traditions of the Babylonish harlot had so long lingered,—who had never known motherly counsel or a father's reproof,—that she, with the stain of heathenism upon her skirts, should have grown into the possession of such a holy, placid, and joyous trust. And there was his poor son beside her, the child of so many hopes, reared, as it were, under the very droppings of the altar, still wandering befogged in the mazes of error, if, indeed, he were not in his secret heart a scoffer. Now that such a result was wholly impracticable and impossible, it did occur to him that perhaps no helpmeet for Reuben could so surely guide him in the way of truth. But of any perplexity of judgment on this score he was now wholly relieved. If his own worldly pride had not stood in the way, (and he was dimly conscious of a weakness of this kind,) the wish of Maverick was authoritative and final. The good man had not the slightest conception of how matters might really stand between the two young parties; he had discovered the anxieties of Miss Eliza in regard to them, and had often queried with himself if too large a taint of worldliness were not coloring the manœuvres of his good sister. For himself he chose rather to leave the formation of all such ties in the hands of Providence, and entertained singularly old-fashioned notions in regard to the sacredness of the marriage-bond and the mystery of its establishment.
In view, however, of possible eventualities, it was necessary that he should come to a full understanding with the spinster in regard to the state of affairs between Adèle and Reuben, and that he should make disclosure to her of the confessions of Maverick. For the second time in his life the Doctor dreaded the necessity of taking his sister into full confidence. The first was on that remarkable occasion—so long past by—when he had declared his youthful love for Rachel, and feared the opposition which would grow out of the spinster's family pride. Now, as then, he apprehended some violent outbreak. He knew all her positiveness and inflexibility,—an inflexibility with which, fortunately, his convictions of duty rarely, if ever, came in conflict. He therefore respected it very greatly. In all worldly affairs, especially in all that regarded social proprieties, he was accustomed to look upon the opinions of his sister as eminently sound, and to give them full indorsement. Unwittingly the old gentleman had subordinated the whole arrangement of his ceremonious visitings and of his wardrobe to the active and lively suggestions of Miss Eliza. Over and over, when in an absent moment he had slipped from his study for a stroll down the street, the keen eye of the maiden sister had detected him before yet he had passed through the parsonage-gate, and her keen voice came after him,—
"Really, Benjamin, that coat is hardly respectable at this hour on the street. You'll find your new one hanging in the press."
And the Doctor, casting a wary look over his person, as if to protest in favor of an old friend, would go back submissively to comply with the exactions of the precise spinster. A wife could not have been more irritatingly observant of such shortcomings; and it is doubtful if even so godly a man would have yielded to a wife's suggestions with fewer protests.
After due reflection on the letter of Maverick, the Doctor stepped softly to the stairs, and said,—
"Eliza, may I speak with you for a few moments in the study?"
There was something in the parson's tone that promised an important communication; and Miss Johns presently appeared and seated herself, work in hand, over against the parson, at the study-table. Older than when we took occasion to describe her appearance in the earlier portion of this narrative, and—if it could be—more prim and stately. A pair of delicately bowed gold spectacles were now called into requisition by her, for the nicer needle-work on which she specially prided herself. Yet her eye had lost none of its apparent keenness, and, inclining her head slightly, she threw an inquiring glance over her spectacles at the Doctor, who was now as composed as if the startling news of the day had been wholly unheard.
"Eliza," said he, "you have sometimes spoken of the possibility of an attachment between Adaly and our poor Reuben."
"Yes, I have, Benjamin," said the spinster, with an air of confidence that seemed to imply full knowledge of the circumstances.
"Do you see any strong indications of such attachment, Eliza?"
"Well, really, Benjamin," said she,—holding her needle to the light, and bringing her spectacles to bear upon the somewhat difficult operation (at her age) of threading it,—"really, I think you may leave that matter to my management."
"The letter which I have received to-day from Mr. Maverick alludes to a rumor of such intimacy."
"Really!"—and the lady eyes the Doctor with a look of keen expectation.
"Mr. Maverick," continued the Doctor, "in referring to the matter, speaks of the probable loss of his fortune."
"Is it possible, brother? Loss of his fortune!" And the spinster gives over attention to her work, while she taps with her thimble, reflectively, upon the elbow of her chair. "I don't think, Benjamin," said she, "that Reuben has committed himself in any way."
"That is well, perhaps, Eliza; it is quite as I had supposed."
"And so the poor man's fortune is gone!" continued the spinster, plaintively.
"Not gone absolutely, Eliza. Maverick's language is, that his estate is in great peril," returned the Doctor.
"Ah!" The spinster is thoughtful and silent for a while, during which the thimble-finger is also quiet. "Does your friend Maverick speak approvingly of such an attachment, brother?"
"By no means, Eliza; he condemns it in the strongest terms."
Miss Johns is amazed at this revelation; and having taken off her golden-bowed spectacles, she passes them, in a nervous way, from end to end, upon the Doctor's table.
"Benjamin," says she presently, with a shrewd look and her sharpest tone, "I don't think his fortune is in any peril whatever. I think Reuben Johns is a good match for Miss Adèle Maverick, any day."
"Tut, tut, Eliza! we must not glorify ourselves vainly. If Maverick disapproves, and Reuben shows no inclination, our course is both plain and easy."
"But I am not so sure about the inclination, Benjamin," said the spinster, sharply; and she replaced her spectacles.
"If that is the case, I am very sorry," said the parson.
The good man had hoped that by only a partial revelation of the contents of the letter he might divert his sister effectually from any matrimonial schemes she might have in hand, and so spare himself the pain of a full disclosure. It was quite evident to him, however, that the opposition of Maverick, if unexplained, would only stimulate the spinster to a new zeal in the furtherance of her pet project. There was nothing for it but to lay before her the whole disagreeable truth.
When the Doctor commenced the reading of the letter, Miss Johns resumed 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 Adèle) 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 Adèle. 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.