The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865
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Various >> The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 96, October 1865
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That first visit to the theatre was like a bold push into the very
domain of Satan. Even the ticket-seller at the door seemed to him on
that eventful night an understrapper of Beelzebub, who looked out at him
with the goggle eyes of a demon. That such a man could have a family, or
family affections, or friendships, or any sense of duty or honor, was to
him a thing incomprehensible; and when he passed the wicket for the
first time into the vestibule of the old Park Theatre, the very usher in
the corridor had to his eye a look like the Giant Dagon, and he
conceived of him as mumbling, in his leisure moments, the flesh from
human bones. And when at last the curtain rose, and the damp air came
out upon him from behind the scenes as he sat in the pit, and the play
began with some wonderful creature in tight bodice and painted cheeks,
sailing across the stage, it seemed to him that the flames of Divine
wrath might presently be bursting out over the house, or a great
judgment of God break down the roof and destroy them all.
But it did not; and he took courage. It is so easy to find courage in
those battles where we take no bodily harm! If conscience, sharpened by
the severe discipline he had known, pricked him awkwardly at the first,
he bore the stings with a good deal of sturdiness. A sinner, no
doubt,--that he knew long ago: a little slip, or indeed no slip at all,
had ranked him with the unregenerate. Once a sinner, (thus he pleasantly
reasoned,) and a fellow may as well be ten times a sinner: a bad job
anyhow. If in his moments of reflection--these being not yet wholly
crowded out from his life--there comes a shadowy hope of better things,
of some moral poise that should be in keeping with the tenderer
recollections of his boyhood,--all this can never come, (he bethinks
himself, in view of his old teaching,) except on the heel of some
terrible conviction of sin; and the conviction will hardly come without
some deeper and more damning weight of it than he feels as yet. A heavy
cumulation of the weight may some day serve him a good turn. Thus the
Devil twists his vague yearning for a condition of spiritual repose into
a pleasantly smacking lash with which to scourge his grosser appetites;
so that, upon the whole, Reuben drives a fine, showy team along the
high-road of indulgence.
Yet the minister's son had no love for gross vices; there were human
instincts in him (if it maybe said) that rebelled against his more
deliberate sinnings. Nay, he affected with his boon companions an
enjoyment of wanton excesses that he only half felt. A certain
adventurous, dare-devil reach in him craved exercise. The character of
Reuben at this stage would surely have offered a good subject for the
study and the handling of Dr. Mowry, if that worthy gentleman could have
won his way to the lad's confidence; but the ponderous methods of the
city parson showed no fineness of touch. Even the father, as we have
seen, could not reach down to any religious convictions of the son; and
Reuben keeps him at bay with a banter, and an exaggerated attention to
the personal comforts of the old gentleman, that utterly baffle him.
Reuben holds too much in dread the old catechismal dogmas and the
ultimate "anathema maran-atha."
So it was with a profound sigh that the father bade his son adieu after
this city visit.
"Good bye, father! Love to them all in Ashfield."
So like Rachel's voice! So like Rachel's! And the heart of the old man
yearned toward him and ached bitterly for him. _"O my son Absalom! my
son! my son Absalom!"_
XXXV.
Maverick hurried his departure from the city; and Adele, writing to Rose
to announce the programme of her journey, says only this much of
Reuben:--"We have of course seen R----, who was very attentive and kind.
He has grown tall,--taller, I should think, than Phil; and he is quite
well-looking and gentlemanly. I think he has a very good opinion of
himself."
The summer's travel offered a season of rare enjoyment to Adele. The
lively sentiment of girlhood was not yet wholly gone, and the
thoughtfulness of womanhood was just beginning to tone, without
controlling, her sensibilities. The delicate attentions of Maverick were
more like those of a lover than of a father. Through his ever watchful
eyes, Adele looked upon the beauties of Nature with a new halo on them.
How the water sparkled to her vision! How the days came and went like
golden dreams!
Ah, happy youth-time! The Hudson, Lake George, Saratoga, the Mountains,
the Beach,--to us old stagers, who have breasted the tide of so many
years, and flung off long ago all the iridescent sparkles of our
sentiment, these are only names of summer thronging-places. Upon the
river we watch the growth of the crops, or ask our neighbors about the
cost of our friend Faro's new country-seat; we lounge upon the piazzas
of the hotels, reading price-lists, or (if not too old) an editorial; we
complain of the windy currents upon the lake, and find our chiefest
pleasure in a trout boiled plain, with a dressing of Champagne sauce; we
linger at Fabian's on a sunny porch, talking politics with a rheumatic
old gentleman in his overcoat, while the youngsters go ambling through
the fir woods and up the mountains with shouts and laughter. Yet it was
not always thus. There were times in the lives of us old travellers--let
us say from sixteen to twenty--when the great river was a glorious
legend trailing its storied length through the Highlands; when in every
opening valley there lay purple shadows whereon we painted castles; when
the corridors and shaded walks of the "United States" were like a fairy
land, with flitting skirts and waving plumes, and some delicately gloved
hand beating its reveille upon the heart; and when every floating film
of mist along the sea, whether at Newport or Nahant, tenderly entreated
the fancy.
But we forget ourselves, and we forget Adele. In her wild exuberance of
joy Maverick shares with a spirit that he had believed to be dead in him
utterly. And if he finds it necessary to check from time to time the
noisy effervescence of her pleasure, as he certainly does at the first,
he does it in the most tender and considerate way; and Adele learns,
what many of her warm-hearted sisters never do learn, that a well-bred
control over our enthusiasms in no way diminishes the exquisiteness of
their savor.
Maverick should be something over fifty now, and his keenness of
observation in respect to feminine charms is not perhaps so great as it
once was; but even he cannot fail to see, with a pride that he makes no
great effort to conceal, the admiring looks that follow the lithe,
graceful figure of Adele, wherever their journey may lead them. Nor,
indeed, were there any more comely toilettes for a young girl to be met
with anywhere than those which had been provided for the young traveller
under the advice of Mrs. Brindlock.
It may be true--what his friend Papiol had predicted--that Maverick will
be too proud of his child to keep her in a secluded corner of New
England. For his pride there is certainly abundant reason; and what
father does not love to see the child of whom he is proud admired?
Yet weeks had run by and Maverick had never once broached the question
of a return. The truth was, that the new experience was so charming and
so engrossing for him, the sweet, intelligent face ever at his side was
so full of eager wonder, and he so delightfully intent upon providing
new sources of pleasure and calling out again and again the gushes of
her girlish enthusiasm, that he shrunk instinctively from a decision in
which must be involved so largely her future happiness.
At last it was Adele herself who suggested the inquiry,--
"Is it true, dear papa, what the Doctor tells me, that you may possibly
take, me back to France with you?"
"What say you, Adele? Would you like to go?"
"Dearly!"
"But," said Maverick, "your friends here,--can you so easily cast them
away?"
"No, no, no!" said Adele,--"not cast them away! Couldn't I come again
some day? Besides, there is your home, papa; I should love any home of
yours, and love your friends."
"For instance, Adele, there is my book-keeper, a lean Savoyard, who
wears a red wig and spectacles,--and Lucille, a great, gaunt woman, with
a golden crucifix about her neck, who keeps my little parlor in
order,--and Papiol, a fat Frenchman, with a bristly moustache and
iron-gray hair, who, I dare say, would want to kiss the pet of his dear
friend,--and Jeannette, who washes the dishes for us, and wears great
wooden sabots"----
"Nonsense, papa! I am sure you have other friends; and then there's the
good godmother."
"Ah, yes,--she indeed," said Maverick; "what a precious hug she would
give you, Adele!"
"And then--and then--should I see mamma?"
The pleasant humor died out of the face of Maverick on the instant; and
then, in a slow, measured tone,--
"Impossible, Adele,--impossible! Come here, darling!" and as he fondled
her in a wild, passionate way, "I will love you for both, Adele; she was
not worthy of you, child."
Adele, too, is overcome with a sudden seriousness.
"Is she living, papa?" And she gives him an appealing look that must be
answered.
And Maverick seems somehow appalled by that innocent, confiding
expression of hers.
"May-be, may-be, my darling; she was living not long since; yet it can
never matter to you or me more. You will trust me in this, Adele?" And
he kisses her tenderly.
And she, returning the caress, but bursting into tears as she does so,
says,--
"I will, I do, papa."
"There, there, darling!"--as he folds her to him; "no more tears,--no
more tears, _cherie_!"
But even while he says it, he is nervously searching his pockets, since
there is a little dew that must be wiped from his own eyes. Maverick's
emotion, however, was but a little momentary contagious sympathy with
the daughter,--he having no understanding of that unsatisfied yearning
in her heart of which this sudden tumult of feeling was the passionate
outbreak.
Meantime Adele is not without her little mementos of the life at
Ashfield, which come in the shape of thick double letters from that good
girl Rose,--her dear, dear friend, who has been advised by the little
traveller to what towns she should direct these tender missives; and
Adele is no sooner arrived at these postal stations than she sends for
the budget which she knows must be waiting for her. And of course she
has her own little pen in a certain travelling-escritoire the good papa
has given her; and she plies her white fingers with it often and often
of an evening, after the day's sight-seeing is over, to tell Rose, in
return, what a charming journey she is having, and how kind papa is, and
what a world of strange things she is seeing; and there are descriptions
of sunsets and sunrises, and of lakes and of mountains, on those
close-written sheets of hers, which Rose, in her enthusiasm, declares to
be equal to many descriptions in print. We dare say they were better
than a great many such.
Poor Rose feels that she has only very humdrum stories to tell in return
for these; but she ekes out her letters pretty well, after all, and what
they lack in novelty is made up in affection.
"There is really nothing new to tell," she writes, "except it be that
our old friend, Miss Almira Tourtelot, astonished us all with a new
bonnet last Sunday, and with new saffron ribbons; and she has come out,
too, in the new tight sleeves, in which she looks drolly enough. Phil is
very uneasy, now that his schooling is done, and talks of going to the
West Indies about some business in which papa is concerned. I hope he
will go, if he doesn't stay too long. He is such a dear, good fellow!
Madame Arles asks after you, when I see her, which is not very often
now; for since the Doctor has come back from New York, he has had a new
talk with mamma, and has quite won her over to _his view of the matter_.
So good bye to French for the present! Heigho! But I don't know that I'm
sorry, now that you are not here, dear Ady.
"Another queer thing I had almost forgotten to tell you. The poor Boody
girl,--you must remember her? Well, she has come back on a sudden; and
they say her father would not receive her in his house,--there are
_terrible stories_ about it!--and now she is living with an old woman
far out upon the river-road,--only a little garret-chamber for herself
and _the child she brought back with her_. Of course _nobody_ goes near
her, or looks at her, if she comes on the street. But--the queerest
thing!--when Madame Arles heard of it and of her story, what does she do
but _walk far out to visit her_, and talked with her in her broken
English for an hour, they say. Papa says she (Madame A.) must be a very
bad woman or a very good woman. Miss Johns says _she always thought she
was a bad woman_. The Bowriggs are, of course, very indignant, and I
doubt if Madame A. comes to Ashfield again with them."
And again, at a later date, Rose writes,--
"The Bowriggs are all off for the winter, and the house closed. Reuben
has been here on a flying visit to the parsonage; and how proud Miss
Eliza was of _her nephew_! He came over to see Phil, I suppose; but Phil
had gone two weeks before. Mamma thinks he is _fine-looking_. I fancy he
will never live in the country again. When shall I see you again, _dear,
dear_ Ady? I have _so much_ to talk to you about!"
A month thereafter Maverick and his daughter find their way back to
Ashfield. Of course Miss Johns has made magnificent preparations to
receive them. She surpassed herself in her toilette on the day of their
arrival, and fairly astonished Maverick with the warmth of her welcome
to his child. Yet he could not help observing that Adele met it more
coolly than was her wont, and that her tenderest words were reserved for
the good Doctor. And how proud she was to walk with her father upon the
village street, glancing timidly up at the windows from which she knew
those stiff old Miss Hapgoods must be peeping out! How proud to sit
beside him in the parson's pew, feeling that the eyes of half the
congregation were fastened on the tall gentleman beside her! Ah, happy
daughter! may your beautiful filial pride never have a fall!
Important business letters command Maverick's early presence abroad;
and, after conference with the Doctor, he decides to leave Adele once
more under the roof of the parsonage.
"Under God, I will do for her what I can," said the Doctor.
"I know it, I know it, my good friend," says Maverick. "Teach her
self-reliance; she may need it some day. And mind what I have said of
this French woman. Adele seems to have a _tendresse_ that way. Those
French women are very insidious, Johns."
"You know their ways better than I," said the Doctor, dryly.
"Good! a smack of the old college humor there, Johns. Well, well, at
least you don't doubt the sacredness of my love for Adele?"
"I trust, Maverick, I may never doubt the sacredness of your love in any
direction. I only hope you may direct it where I fear you do not."
"God bless you, Johns! I wish I were as good a man as you."
A little afterwards Maverick was humming a snatch from an opera under
the trees of the orchard; and Adele went bounding toward him, to take
the last walk with him for so long,--so long!
XXXVI.
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 Adele. 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 Adele 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 Adele 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 Adele 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, Adele," 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 Adele, petulantly.
"It is gratifying to me," continued Miss Eliza, without notice of
Adele's interruption, "that Mr. Maverick has confirmed my own
impressions, and urged the Doctor against permitting so unwise
association."
"When? how?" said Adele, sharply. "Papa has never seen her."
"But he has seen other French women, Adele, and he fears their
influence."
Adele 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 Adele 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 Adele 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!
Adele'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! Adele 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 Adele. 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
Adele takes some, and throws more out of the window.
Adele 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 Adele
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 Adele and of
her father's fortune. Of course the life of Adele 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 Adele 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.
Adele 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, Adele; 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 Adele, 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 Adele is chafing more
and more under the wonted family regimen. With an affectation of tender
solicitude, she volunteers herself to attend Adele 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 Adele, and for her incarceration in a nunnery,--a
theory which Miss Almira, with her natural tendency to romance,
industriously propagated.
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