Mrs. William T. Savage - Adele Dubois

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John had heard of death, but he had heard of it just as he had heard
of the poisonous Upas-tree, growing on some distant ocean island, or
of an evil star, under whose baleful influence he might never fall.

The young live as if this life were immortal. So much the more bitter
their experience, when they wake up from the delusion.

The others of the party were gathered in an adjoining room, gazing
silently at the scene without. It was fearful, yet sublime. The whole
northern side of the Miramichi river, for over one hundred miles, had
become involved in one mighty sheet of flame, which was sweeping on in
swift destruction to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The river boiled with
the fierce heat and tossed its foaming waters, filled with its now
lifeless inhabitants, to the shore. The fire was fed by six thousand
square miles of primeval forest,--a dense growth of resinous
trees,--by houses and barns filled with crops, and by thriving towns
upon the river's bank.

Above all, the people could not put aside the horrible truth, that
hundreds of men, women, and children,--their friends and their
acquaintances,--were perishing by the all-consuming element. They
could not exclude from fancy, the agonized and dying shrieks of those
dear to them, and the demoniac light shone on countenances, expressing
emotions of pity, grief, horror, and despair.

While the missionary sat there waiting for the day, he recalled with
startling distinctness the wild dream he dreamed, on that first night
he spent at the Dubois House. Of course, his belief in foregleams of
future events was confirmed by the scenes transpiring around him.

Mrs. Dubois sat near him, her countenance expressing profound grief.

"The dear young man!" she said. "How sad and awful thus to die!"

"My dear madam", said Mr. Norton, "let us not mourn as those who have
no hope. Our beloved friend, brilliant and susceptible, aspiring and
tender, was illy fitted for the rude struggle of life. It is true he
might have fought his way through, girt with the armor of Christian
faith and prayer, as many others, like him, have done. But the fight
would have been a hard one. So he has been kindly taken home. Sad and
awful thus to die? Say rather, infinitely blest the God-protected
soul, thus snatched away from this terrific uproar of natural elements
into the sphere of majestic harmonies, of stupendous yet peaceful
powers".

At daybreak the little community took to their boats, crossed the
river and re-entered once more the dwellings they had but a few hours
before left, never expecting to return to them again. Some went home
and gathered their families in unbroken numbers around them. Others,
whose husbands and sons had been absent in the forest at the time of
the breaking out of the fire, over whose fate remained a terrible
uncertainty, gathered in silence around lonely hearths. The terrors of
the past night were, to such, supplemented by days and even weeks of
heartbreaking anxiety and suspense, closed at last by the knowledge of
certain bereavement.

All had been deeply impressed with the horror of the scene, and
sobered into thoughtfulness. A few felt truly grateful to the Most
High for their wonderful preservation.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SEPARATION.

With the morning light and the return to the settlement, Mr. Lansdowne
awoke to a consciousness of the duty immediately before him, that of
making arrangements for the safe conveyance home of the precious form
now consigned to his care.

His friends at the Dubois house manifested the deepest sympathy in his
affliction, and aided him in every possible way. In making his journey
he concluded to take a boat conveyance to Chatham, and a trading
vessel thence to his native city.

The missionary, who since the early spring had been laboring up and
down the rivers St. John and Miramichi, now concluded to return to his
family for the coming winter. Such had been his intention and his
promise to Mrs. Norton, when he left home. He was induced to go at
this particular time partly by the hope of rendering some service to
Mr. Lansdowne during his journey, and partly in order to see Mrs.
Lansdowne and impart to her the particulars of her brother's residence
and illness at Miramichi. A scheme of mercy on the part of the good
man.

On the return of Mr. Dubois to his house, he found a package of
letters, which, in the confusion and anxiety of the previous day, had
remained unopened. There was one from the Count de Rossillon,
announcing the death of the Countess. He wrote as if deeply depressed
in mind, speaking of the infirmities of age weighing heavily upon him,
and of his loneliness, and imploring Mr. Dubois to come, make his
abode at the chateau and take charge of the estate, which, at his
death, he added, would pass into the possession of Mrs. Dubois and
Adele.

Mrs. Dubois's heart beat with delight and her eyes swam with tears of
pleasure, at the prospect of once more returning to her beloved
Picardy. Yet her joy was severely chastened by the loss of the
Countess, whom she had fondly loved.

Adele felt a satisfaction in the anticipation of being restored to the
dignities of Rossillon, which she was too proud to manifest.

Mr. Dubois alone hesitated in entertaining the idea of a return. His
innate love of independence, together with a remembrance of the early
antipathy the Count had shown to the marriage with his niece, made the
thought repellant to him. A calmer consideration, however, changed his
view of the case. He recollected that the Count had at last consented
to his union with Mrs. Dubois, and reflected that the infirmities and
loneliness of the Count laid on them obligations they should not
neglect. He found, also, that his own love of home and country, now
that it could at last with propriety be gratified, welled up and
overflowed like a newly sprung fountain.

The tornado had spent itself, the fire had rushed on to the ocean, the
atmosphere had became comparatively clear and the weather cool and
bracing.

On the evening before the departure of Mr. Norton and Mr. Lansdowne,
the family met, as on many previous occasions, in the Madonna room. In
itself, the apartment was as cheerful and attractive as ever, but each
one present felt a sense of vacancy, a shrinking of the heart. The
sunny changeful glow of one bright face was no longer there, and the
shadows of approaching separation cast a gloom over the scene.

These people, so strangely thrown together in this wild, obscure
region of Miramichi, drawn hither by such differing objects of
pursuit, bound by such various ties in life, occupying such divergent
positions in the social scale, had grown by contact and sympathy into
a warm friendship toward each other. Their daily intercourse was now
to be broken up, the moment of adieu drew nigh, and the prospect of
future meeting was, to say the least, precarious. Was it strange that
some sharp pangs of regret filled their hearts?

Mr. Lansdowne, who had up to this time been wholly occupied with his
preparations for departure, was sitting, in an attitude betokening
weariness and despondency, leaning his arms upon a table, shading his
face with his hand. A few days of grief and anxiety had greatly
changed him. He looked pale and languid, but Adele thought, as she
occasionally glanced at him from the sofa opposite, that she had never
seen his countenance so clothed with spiritual beauty.

Mr. Dubois, who had not yet spoken to his friends of his intention to
remove to France, now broke the heavy silence, by announcing his
purpose to leave, in the course of a week, and return with his family
to Picardy.

Mr. Lansdowne started suddenly and uttered a slight exclamation. Adele
looked at him involuntarily. He was gazing at her intently. The
strange light again glowed in his eyes. Her own fell slowly. She could
not keep her lids lifted beneath his gaze.

After the plans of Mr. Dubois had been discussed, mutual inquiries and
communications respecting future prospects were made, until the
evening hours were gone.

"If my life is spared, I shall come here and spend another season, as
I have spent the one just closing", said Mr. Norton.

Thus they parted for the night.

In the morning there was time for nothing, but a few hasty words.

Adele's face was very pale. Mr. Lansdowne, looking as if he had not
slept for many hours, took her hand, bent over it silently for a
moment, then walked slowly to the boat without turning his head.

During days and weeks of tranquil pleasure in each other's
companionship, these two young beings had unconsciously become lovers.
No sooner had they awakened to a knowledge of this fact, than a great
danger and an unlooked for sorrow, while deepening the current of
their existence, had also deepened their affection. Was that formal,
restrained adieu to be the end of all this?

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHATEAU DE ROSSILLON.

In the year 1828, three years after the occurrences related in the
last chapter, Adele Dubois, grown into a superb beauty, stood near the
Aphrodite fountain, in front of the chateau de Rossillon, feeding from
her hand a beautiful white fawn. It was a warm, sunny afternoon in
June. Majestic trees shaded the green lawn, and the dark brown hue of
the old chateau formed a fitting background for the charming tableau.
Adele was enveloped in a cloud of white gauzy drapery, a black velvet
girdle encircling her waist, fastened by a clasp of gold and pearls.
Her hair was laid in smooth bands over her brow, then drawn into one
mass of heavy braids upon the back of the head, and secured by a
golden arrow shot through it.

One who by chance had seen Adele in the wilds of Miramichi, at the age
of sixteen, would at once recognize the lady feeding the fawn as the
same. At a second glance, the hair would be seen to have grown a shade
darker and a gleam more shining, the large sloe-colored eyes more
thoughtful and dreamy, the complexion of a more transparent
whiteness, and the figure to have ripened into a fuller and richer
symmetry.

Nothing could surpass the exquisite moulding and fairness of the arm
extended alternately to feed and caress the pet animal before her. No
wonder the little creature looked up at her with its soft, almost
human eyes, and gazed in her face, as if half bewildered by her
beauty.

With a proud and stately grace, she moved over the sward, up the
marble steps and passed through the great saloon of the chateau. Was
there not a slight air of indifference and _ennui_ in her face and
movements? Possibly. It has been noticed that people who are loved,
petted, and admired, who have plenty of gold and jewels, who sit at
feasts made for princes, and have the grand shine of splendor always
gleaming round them, are more likely to carry that weary aspect, than
others. Queens even do not look pleased and happy more than half the
time. The fact was, that Adele of Miramichi, having spent much time in
Paris, during the last three years, where she had been greatly
admired, now that the novelty was over, had become tired of playing a
part in the pageantry of courtly life and longed for something more
substantial.

As she crossed the saloon, a page informed her that Mrs. Dubois wished
her presence in the library. She immediately obeyed the summons.

This apartment, one of the pleasantest in the chateau, was a favorite
with the Count; and as age and infirmity crept upon him, he grew more
and more attached to it, and was accustomed to spend there the greater
part of his time, amused and soothed by the attentions of Mrs. Dubois
and Adele. It was a lofty, but not very large apartment, the walls
nearly covered with bookcases of oak, carved in quaint old patterns
and filled with choice books in various languages. Several finely
executed statues were placed in niches, and one large picture, by
Rubens, gathered a stream of sunshine upon its gorgeous canvas.

The Count was sitting, buried in the purple cushions of an easy-chair,
fast asleep, and as Adele entered the room, her mother held up her
finger, warningly.

"_Ma chere_", said Mrs. Dubois, in a low tone, "here is a packet of
letters for you, from Paris".

Adele took them from her mother's hand, indifferently. She read and
crushed together a note bearing the impression of a coat of arms.

"Count D'Orsay and sister wish to come here next week", she said, with
a half sigh.

"_Eh, bien! ma chere_, they are agreeable people. I shall be glad to
see them".

"Yes", replied Adele, "Gabrielle is very lovely.
Nevertheless, I regret they are coming".

"Do you know, Adele, how highly your father esteems the young Count?"

"Yes, mamma, and that is one reason why I do not wish him to come now
to Rossillon. You know he loves me, and my father approves. I can
never marry him. But I esteem and respect him so much, that it will
give me infinite pain to say nay".

Mrs. Dubois looked at Adele very tenderly, yet gravely, and said,
"_Ma fille_, do not throw away a true, devoted affection, for the sake
of a phantom one. I fear that, while you are dreaming and waiting,
happiness will slip out of your path".

"Dreaming and waiting", repeated Adele, a slight red color kindling on
her cheek, "_am_ I dreaming and waiting?"

"It seems to me you are, _ma chere_; I fear it will at last spoil your
peace. I do not see how the Count D'Orsay can fail to win your heart.
Do not decide hastily, Adele".

"I have considered the affair a long time already. I have looked into
my heart and find nothing there, for Count D'Orsay, but simple
respect, esteem, and friendship. It would be a wrong to him, should I
consent to marry him, without a warmer, deeper sentiment. It is of no
use thinking about it longer. The subject must be closed. I know I
shall not change, and his affection is too true and pure to be
tampered with. I shall tell him all frankly next week".

"_Eh, bien_!" said Mrs. Dubois, with a sigh, and returned to her
letters.

Adele, who felt quite unhappy to disappoint her mother's hopes in the
case, looked thoughtful. They were both silent for several minutes.

"Here is a letter from the good missionary", suddenly whispered Mrs.
Dubois, holding up to her daughter several sheets of large paper, well
covered. "See what a nice long one. Now we shall hear the news from
our old home".

She began to read the missive in a low tone, looking occasionally to
see if her voice disturbed the sleeper, and Adele, whose countenance
had instantly brightened upon the mention of the letter, drew her seat
nearer to her mother and listened intently.

MIRAMICHI RIVER, APRIL, 1828.

DEAR FRIENDS--

I am again on the memorable spot. You can scarcely imagine my interest
in retracing the scene of my brief mission here, in the summer and
autumn of 1825, or the deep emotion with which I revisit your former
residence, the house under whose roof you so kindly sheltered and
entertained one, then exiled, like yourselves, from home. I shall ever
rejoice that Providence threw me into your society, and bestowed upon
me the precious gift of your friendship.

Three years have passed since those eventful weeks we spent together,
on the banks of this beautiful river, and you will be interested to
know what changes have taken place here during that time.

Traces are still distinctly visible of the awful fire, but Time, the
great healer of wounds, and Nature, who is ever striving to cover up
the desolations of earth, are both at work, silently but diligently
overlaying the hideous black disfigurement with greenness and beauty.
The Miramichi and its picturesque precincts are now more alive than
ever, with a hardy and active population. New villages are springing
up on the banks of the river, and business, especially in the branches
of lumbering and fishing, is greatly increasing. There is also a
marvellous change in the moral aspect of the country. It is ascribed
in a great degree to the deep impression made upon the minds of the
people by the conflagration, and doubtless this is the fact. It must
be that God had a retributory end in view in that great event. It was
a judgment upon the community for its exceeding wickedness. Nothing
short of a grand, widespread illumination like that, could have
penetrated the gross darkness that hung over the land.

The way has been thus prepared for the reception of the truth; and
whereas formerly the people, if they came at all to hear the preaching
of God's word, were only drawn by motives of vain curiosity, or the
desire of novelty, they now come in great numbers and with a sincere
desire, as I believe, to be instructed in the way of salvation. Last
year, I came to this region early in the spring and labored until late
in the autumn, preaching up and down the river, from house to house
and from grove to grove, and found the people, almost everywhere,
ready to hear. Many were baptized in the flowing waters of the
Miramichi, made a profession of their faith in Christ, and have since
exhibited in their daily lives, good and in some cases shining
evidence of their sincerity.

You may perhaps be interested to know that yesterday, which was the
Sabbath, I discoursed, as in days gone by, in Micah's Grove. The
people came in from a great distance around, and it was estimated that
there were not less than eight hundred present.

My soul was completely filled with a sense of God's unbounded love to
the human family, and my heart was enlarged to speak of the wonderful
things belonging to His goodness and mercy towards us, as a race. I
was like a bottle filled with new wine, my heart overflowing with the
remembrance of God's love. Conviction was carried in a most signal
manner to the souls of many present. The whole assembly seemed for a
time to be overshadowed by the immediate Divine presence.

It is remarkable, that though the people do at the present time seem
to be under profound religious impressions, yet there are scarcely any
traces of the delusion and wildfire usually accompanying such seasons,
among a somewhat uncultivated and undisciplined population. That great
fire sobered them, perhaps.

But, my dear friends, I know you are impatient to hear some details
respecting the state of affairs at the "Dubois Settlement", so called
from the grateful attachment felt by the inhabitants for a
distinguished family once residing there. The new people who have
established themselves here of late, are acquainted with the family
just alluded to, of course only by tradition, but so deep has been the
impression made upon the minds of the new comers, by Mrs. McNab, Micah
Mummychog, and others, of the worth, benevolence, power, and present
grandeur of said family, that these persons are more than willing,
they feel honored in retaining the name of Dubois in this parish. The
above is written, to elucidate to your minds the fact, obvious enough
here, that you are not forgotten.

Now, you will wish to hear what has befallen some of the queer
notabilities of the Settlement. By courtesy, I begin with Mrs. McNab.
You will remember her, as the general oracle and adviser of a certain
portion of the female population in the neighborhood, and as greatly
opposed to some of the "doctreenes", as she called my instructions to
the people. Well, she remains in her entireness and individuality, her
costume as grotesque and her speech as Scotch as ever.

You will be surprised, however, to learn that she has a far more
favorable opinion of your humble servant than formerly. I have had
some difficulty in accounting for this change in her disposition. It
seems, however, that she had early taken a prejudice against Yankees,
and had got an idea, in the beginning, that I had some wily and
sinister intentions toward the people, connected with my labors here.
No developments of that kind having been made, she began to look more
complacently upon my efforts, and she thinks now that the way in which
I have endeavored to lead the community, is not so bad after all.

"The warst thing I had agen ye, was this", she said to me not long
since. "My meenister o' the Kirk at Dumfries used to preach that a
pusson, might repent o' his sins, an' pray and pray a' his life lang,
but wad nae ken, in this warld, whether or nae he was to be saved.
Whereas, ye ken ye told the people that ef they repented o' their sins
and believed in Christ and gave the evidence o' gude warks they might
settle right doon, and ken they'd be saved, anyhow. I ca' that a
peskalent doctreen, an a loose ane to promoolgate. Though I must
confess, ye hae na dune the meeschief I luked for".

I did not think it best to go into a discussion of our theological
differences, lest it should stir up the waters of strife, and
therefore waived the subject.

Mrs. McNab occupies two comfortable rooms at Mrs. Campbell's house,
from whence she issues forth, whenever occasion calls, to perform the
duties of nurse, counsellor, and supervisor-general of the domestic
affairs of the community. The tea-drinkings in her parlor seem to be
occasions of great social enjoyment to the fortunate neighbors
invited. After the regular gossip of the day has been discussed, she
entertains her company with the same old stories of her former life in
Scotland, among its grand families, and to these she has added, for
the benefit of those who have more recently come into the Settlement,
accounts of the "Doobyce" family, characterizing its members by
remarking, that "Mr. Doobyce was a braw, princely mon, his wife a
sweet, fair spoken leddy, an' Miss Ady was a born queen, ef there ever
was ane. She had her ane way wi' everybody, an' e'en I mysel' hae gien
up to her, whiles".

Micah Mummychog, alias Jones, Miss Adele's special devotee, never a
bad-hearted person, has now become one of the influential men of the
neighborhood, and sustains here every good word and work. About a year
after the great fire, he had a long and dangerous illness, brought on
by great exposure to cold while lumbering in the woods.

Mrs. McNab voluntarily went to his house and took care of him most
assiduously, for many weeks, until his recovery. Micah said, that "it
looked remarkable kind in the old soul to come of her own accord and
take keer of him, when he'd allers plagued her so unmascifully".

He felt very grateful to her and paid her handsomely for her services.
Nevertheless, he teases her yet occasionally and says "he dont know
neow, which skeered him most, the great fire, or comin' to his senses
one night when he was sick, and seein' Aunt McNab with her head
wropped up in its cotton night gear".

Subsequent to Micah's recovery, he went to the Kennebec River and
visited his friends. After his return, he commenced trading, and is
now doing quite an extensive business. He has entirely broken off from
his old habits of swearing and gambling, and discountenances them
among the people. He attends religious worship constantly, and sets a
worthy example in keeping the Sabbath day.

He is also getting his ideas up on the subject of education. Not long
since, he told me it was his opinion that "there warn't half school
larnin' enuf among the people, and there'd oughter to be longer
schools. There's Jinny Campbell, there, a bright leetle imp as ever
was, and ef she'd had a chance would a taken to her books, like a
chicken to a dough dish. And there's others, most as smart as she is,
all reound, that need schoolin'. I feel the want of it myself, neow
its tew late to git it".

A few days ago, Micah told me he expected to build a new house for
himself soon.

"Ah! Micah", said I, "have you got tired of that comfortable old house
of yours, where we have had so many nice suppers and cosey times
together?"

"Well, no, Captin'; I hain't, and I'm afeerd I shall never like
another place as I dew that. But ye see, ef a feller is a goin' to git
merried, he's got to stir reound and dew what suits other folks as
well as hisself".

"Married! Micah", I said, in complete astonishment, "are you going to
be married?"

"That's jest the way I expected yeou'd look", said he, "when I told ye
abeout it, because ye knew I used to talk agin it, like fury. But ye
see, Captin'; I aint just as I used to be, abeout some things. I'll
tell ye heow it came reound, any heow, so as to sahtisfy ye I ain't
crazy. Well, when I was a beginnin' to git better o' that terable
sickness, the fust and only one I ever had in my life, Miss Campbell,
she used to send Jinny up, with bits o' briled chicken, nice broth and
sech, to kinder tempt my appetite like. The little critter used to
bring 'em in and be so pitiful to me and say, do Micah try to eat
this, so that you may git well; and she seemed so pooty, sincere and
nateral like in all her ways, that I took to her mightily, specially
as I hadn't Miss Adele to look arter and chore reound for, any more.
Once or twice, when she came to bring suthin, Ant McNab kinder advised
her to do this and that, and the way the leetle critter spunked up and
had her own way, made me think o' Miss Adele and pleased me some, I
tell ye.

"Well, arter I got well, she seemed to be just as chipper and pleasant
as ever, and was allers glad when I went to the heouse, and so it went
on (I won't bother abeout the rest on't) till six months ago. As I was
a walkin' hum from a meetin' at the Grove with her, she sed, 'what a
pooty Grove that is, of yours, Micah;' Witheout a considerin' a half a
minit, I sed, right away, 'Jinny, I'd give yeou that Grove and all I
have beside, upon one condition.' I looked at her, arter I'd sed it,
as skeered as I could be, fur fear she'd fly right at me, fur sayin'
sech a thing. But she didn't. She only colored up awfully and sed, in
a fluttered kinder way, 'what condition, Micah?' 'Pon condition that
you'd merry me, Jinny.' You may believe that arter I sed that, my
heart stood still, better'n a minit. She didn't say a word at fust,
seemed ruther took by surprise, and then, all of a sudding, she turned
her head and looked up inter my face as sarcy as ye ever see anything,
and says she, 'Do yeou think I'd ever merry a man with sech a horrid
name as Mummychog?' 'Is that all the objection you hev, Jinny?' ses I.
Ses she, ''Tis the greatest, I know of.' Then ses I, 'There ain't no
diffikilty, for my name aint Mummychog, and never was. When I came
deown to this kentry, I was a wild, reckless kind of a critter, and I
thought I'd take some outlandish name, jest for the joke on it. I took
Mummychog, and they allers called me so. But my real name is Jones.'
'Well, Mr. Jones,' ses she, lookin' sarcier than ever, 'I shall expect
yeou to hev a sign painted with your real name on it and put up on
your store, and yeou must build a new heouse before I merry yeou.'
That sobered me deown a leetle. I sed, 'But Jinny, I don't want ye to
merry me, unless ye like me. I'll build a heouse and gin it tew ye, ef
that's what ye want. But ye needn't merry me unless ye like me--neow
remember.' She looked at me, jest as soon as I sed that, and caught up
my big hand inter her little one, and ses she, 'O law, Micah, I'd
merry ye ef yer name _was_ Mummychog, and ye needn't build a heouse,
nor nuthin'. I ken go right to the old place jest as well. I'd merry
ye ef ye hadn't a cent, for I like ye better'n anybody else in the
world, Micah.' And then she began to cry, and I hushed her up. And so,
neow it's all settled".

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