Mrs. William T. Savage - Adele Dubois
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Mrs. William T. Savage >> Adele Dubois
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CHAPTER VIII.
A FUNERAL.
The day following the call made by Mr. Norton on Micah Mummychog, the
last-named personage came to Mr. Dubois's house and Adele happening to
open the outside door, just as he hove in sight, he called out, "Miss
Ady, do ye know where that individooal that ye brought to my heouse
yisterday, is?"
"You mean the missionary?" said Adele.
"Well, yis, I spose so; where is he?"
"He is engaged with a sick gentleman we have here. He has taken the
place of Aunt Patty, who is tired out and has gone to rest".
"Well, that piece of flesh, what's called McNab, has the greatest
fakkilty of gittin' tired eout when there's any work reound, that ever
I see. Any heow, she's got to stir herself this time. But I want to
see the minister, neow".
"Yes, I will speak to him. But I shall not call Aunt Patty. She _is_
tired now. I can take care of the sick gentleman. But what has
happened, Micah?"
"Well, there's goin' to be a funeral. I can't jestly tell ye abeout
it neow. Ye can ax yer sir, when he comes in", said Micah, reluctant
to go into particulars which he knew would shock Adele.
"Well, Captin", said Micah, when Mr. Norton made his appearance at the
door, here's a reg'lar wind-fall for ye. Here's an Irishman over here,
as is dead as a door nail. He's goin' to be buried to-night, 'beout
sunset, and I dun no but what I can git a chance for ye to hold forth
a spell in the grove, jest afore they put him under greound".
"Dead! the poor man dead! indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Norton.
"Yis. He was shot right through his heart, and I hope a swingin' cuss
'ill come on him that put the ball threough, tew".
"Why, how was it, Mr. Micah?" said Mr. Norton earnestly.
"Well, yeou jest tell me fust wether yeou'll say prayers, or somethin'
or 'nother over the poor chap's reeliks".
"Certainly, I will, Mr. Micah".
"Well, ye see, Pat McGrath lived back here, half a mile or so, an'
he's got lots o' cousins an' friends 'ut live all along on this 'ere
river, more or less, till ye git to Chartham, _that's_ sitooated to
the mouth. Well, these fellers has been in the habit o' gittin'
together and goin' deown river and hirin' once in a spell, some sort
of old, cranky craft and goin' skylarking reound to Eastport and
Portland. Arter a while they'd cum back and smuggle in a cargo o'
somethin' or 'nother from the States, and sheirk the dooties. Well,
'beout a week ago, there was a confounded old crittur 'ut lives
halfway from here to Chartham, that informed on' em. So they jes'
collected together--'beout twenty fellers--and mobbed him. And the old
cuss fired into 'em and killed this 'ere man. So neow they've brought
his body hum, and his wife's a poor shiftless thing, and she's been a
hollerin' and screechin' ever sence she heerd of it".
"Poor woman!" said Mr. Norton, greatly shocked.
"Well, I might as well tell yer the whole on't", said Micah,
scratching his head. "Yer see, he was one o' these Catholics, this Pat
was, and the fellers went to the priest (he lives deown river, little
better'n ten mile from here) in course to git him to dew what's to be
done to the funeral, and the tarnal old heathen wouldn't dew it. He
sed Pat had gone agin the law o' the kentry, and he wouldn't hev
anything to do 'beout it. So the fellers brought the body along, and I
swear, Pat McGrath shall hev a decent funeral, any way".
"Where is the funeral to be?" asked Mr. Norton, after listening
attentively to the account Micah had given him.
"O! deown here 'n the grove. The body's to my heouse, and Maggie his
wife's there a screechin'. The graveyard's close here, and so they
didn't carry him hum".
"I'll, go down and see this poor Maggie", said Mr. Norton.
"Don't, for the Lord's sake. I'm eenermost crazy neow. The heouse is
jammed full o' folks, and there ain't nothin, ready. You jes' wait
here, till I git things in shape and I'll cum arter ye".
Micah then departed to complete his arrangements, and Mr. Norton
returned to his post, in the sick-room.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, before a messenger came
to inform him that the hour of burial had arrived.
A strange scene presented itself to his view, as he approached the
grove. A motley company, composed of the settlers of every grade and
condition for miles around, had collected there. Men, women, and
children in various costume--the scarlet and crimson shirt, or tunic,
carrying it high above all other fashions--were standing, or walking
among the trees, conversing upon the event that had brought them
together.
As the missionary approached, the loud indignant voices subsided into
a low murmur, and the people made way for him to reach the centre of
the group.
Here he found the coffin, placed upon a pile of boards, entirely
uncovered to the light of day and to the inspection of the people, who
had, each in turn, gazed with curious eyes upon the lifeless clay it
enclosed.
In the absence of Mrs. McNab, who was still sleeping away the effects
of her late fatigues at the house of Mr. Dubois, the women of the
neighborhood had arrayed Patrick McGrath, very properly, in a clean
shirt of his accustomed wearing apparel, so arranging it that the
folds of the red tunic could be lifted in order to expose to those who
came to look upon him the wound he had received. There he lay, the
rude smuggler, turned gently upon his side, one cheek pressing the
pillow. Death had effaced from his countenance every trace of the
stormy passions which raged in his breast when the fatal bullet struck
him, and had sealed it with even a pleasant serenity.
Not so with the compeers of his race, who encircled the coffin. _They_
scowled a fierce fury from beneath their bushy brows and muttered vows
of vengeance. The rays of the sun, now rapidly declining, shot into
their angry faces, the evening breeze shook out their matted locks of
hair. A peculiar glow was cast over their wild, Erin features, now
gleaming with unholy passion.
Mr. Norton bent for a few minutes over the coffin, while an expression
of sorrow and deep commiseration overspread his countenance. Then he
stepped upon a slight knoll of ground near by, raised himself to his
full height and began to speak in a voice that rose above the crowd,
clear, melodious, full and penetrating as the notes of a bugle. It
thrilled on every ear and drew instant attention.
"Friends, brethren, fellow-sinners, one of our number has been
suddenly struck down by the relentless hand of death, and we are here
to pay the last honors to his mortal remains,--each and all to learn a
solemn lesson while standing at the mouth of the grave. Brethren, we
are to learn anew from this occasion that death often comes to man
with the suddenness of the lightning flash. One moment before your
comrade was struck by the fatal bullet, his eye glowed as keenly and
his right arm was as powerful as yours. The next moment he was
prostrate on the ground, with no power to move a single limb of his
body, or utter a single sigh, or breathe a single prayer. He was dead".
"I am ignorant whether he was prepared to make such a sudden transit
from this world to that scene of judgment to which he has been
summoned. _You_ know, who were his friends and comrades, what his
former course has been, and whether he was prepared to meet the Judge
of all the earth. I know nothing of all this, but I fervently hope
that at the last erring, awful moment, when he had just committed an
act of transgression against the laws of his country, he had in his
heart, and did, offer up this prayer, 'God be merciful to me, a
sinner.' We must leave him in the hands of the Almighty, who is both
merciful and just. We cannot change his lot, but we have it in our
power to profit by the circumstances of his death. Beholding how
suddenly he has been cut off, in the prime and strength of his days,
we may learn that we too may be called at some unexpected moment, and
that it behooves us to be found ever in the right path, so living, so
acting, that we shall be ready, when death comes, to meet our Judge
without fear and with the assurance that when we depart this life,
through the righteousness of Christ, we shall be introduced into a
better and nobler country. I beg of you earnestly, my dear brethren,
in order to secure this happy result, to turn immediately from your
sins, repenting of them without delay, and apply to Christ whose blood
can alone wash them away. Take the Bible, this precious gift from
Heaven, for your counsellor and guide, follow its instructions, and
you will be safe and happy, whether in life or in death".
"My brethren, I will say but one word more; that word I earnestly
implore you to listen to. This book from God says, vengeance is mine;
I will repay. I fear it is in your hearts to seek revenge upon him who
is the author of your comrade's death. I beseech you not to do it. God
knows where the wrong is, in this case, and He, the great Avenger,
will not suffer it to go unpunished. Sooner or later He brings every
wicked and wrong-doer to a just reward. Leave all in His righteous
hands, and stain not your souls with blood and violence. Let us seek
the divine blessing".
Mr. Norton then offered a short and simple prayer, imploring the
forgiveness of sins, and blessings upon Patrick's wife, his
companions, and the community.
Maggie, who had wailed herself into perfect exhaustion and almost
stupor, sat gazing fixedly in his face; the rest seemed hushed as by a
spell, and did not begin to move until some moments after his voice
ceased.
Then the tongues were loosened, and amid the ebbs and flows of
murmuring sound, the coffin was covered, placed upon a bier and borne
to the grave, followed by the crowd.
"And shure", said a poor Irishwoman to her crony, as they trudged
along behind, "the praste's voice sounded all the while like a great
blessed angel, a blowin' through a silver trumpet. Shure, he's a
saint, he is".
CHAPTER IX.
ADELE DUBOIS.
The Dubois family, though widely separated by social rank and worldly
possessions from the population around them, had yet, to a certain
degree, mingled freely with the people. Originating in France, they
possessed the peculiar national faculty of readily adapting themselves
to the manners and customs of races foreign to their own.
It is impossible to forget in the early history of the North American
colonies, what facility the French displayed, in contrast with the
English, in attaining communication with the children of the forest,
in acquiring and retaining their confidence, in taking on their rude
and uncultivated modes of life, and in shaping even their
superstitions to their own selfish purposes.
Of all the foreigners who have attempted to demonstrate to the world,
the social and political problems of America, who has investigated
with such insight, and developed so truly our manners and customs and
the spirit and genius of our government as Tocqueville?
Mr. Dubois, though possessing a conservative power that prevented him
from descending to the low type of character and the lax principles
of the country, yet never made any other than the most quiet assertion
of superiority. It was impossible indeed for him to hold business
connections with the rough settlers without mingling freely with them.
But he never assumed the air of a master. He frequently engaged with
them in bold, adventurous exploits, the accomplishment of which did
not involve an infringement of law; sometimes he put hand and shoulder
to the hard labors they endured, and he was ever ready with his
sympathy and aid in redressing their grievances. Though often shocked
at their lawless and profane customs, he yet recognized in many of
them traits of generosity and nobleness.
Without a particle of aggressiveness in his disposition, he had never
undertaken actively the work of reform, yet his example of uprightness
and integrity had made an impression upon the community. The people
treated him with unvarying respect and confidence, partly from a sense
of his real superiority, and partly, perhaps, from the very lack of
self-assertion on his side. Consequently without having made the least
effort to do so, he exercised an autocratic power among them.
Mrs. Dubois visited the women of the place frequently, particularly
when the men were absent in their lumbering, or fishing operations,
conversing with them freely, bearing patiently their superstitions and
ignorance, aiding them liberally in temporal things, and sometimes
mingling kindly words of counsel with her gifts.
Adele's intercourse with the settlers was in an altogether different
style. Her manner from earliest childhood, when she first began to
run about from one cottage to another, had been free, frank, and
imperious. Whether it was, that having sniffed from babyhood the fresh
forest air of the new world, its breath had inspired her with a
careless independence not shared by her parents, or, whether the
haughty blood that had flowed far back in the veins of ancestors,
after coursing quietly along the generations, had in her become
stimulated into new activity, certain it is, she had always the
bearing of one having authority and the art of governing seemed
natural to her. It was strange, therefore, that she should have been
such a universal favorite in the neighborhood. But so it was. Those
who habitually set public law at defiance, came readily under the
control of her youthful sway.
Possessing a full share of the irrepressible activity of childhood,
she enacted the part of lady of the Manor, assuming prerogatives that
even her mother did not think of exercising.
When about eleven summers old, she opened one afternoon the door of an
Irish cabin and received at once a cordial, noisy welcome from its
inmates. She did not however, make an immediate response, for she had
begun taking a minute survey of the not over-nice premises. At length
she deigned to speak.
"Bridget Malone, are you not ashamed to have such a disorderly house
as this? Why don't you sweep the floor and put things in place?"
"Och! hinny, and how can I swape the floor without a brum?" said
Bridget, looking up in some dismay.
"Didn't my father order James to give you a broom whenever you want
one? Here Pat", said she, to a ragged urchin about her own age, who
was tumbling about over the floor with a little dirty-faced baby,
"here, take this jack-knife and go down to the river by Mrs.
Campbell's new house and cut some hemlock boughs. Be quick, and bring
them back as fast as you can". Pat started at once.
Adele then deliberately took off her bonnet and shawl, rolled them up
into as small a package as she could make, and placed them on the
nearest approximation to a clean spot that could be found. Then she
stooped down, took the baby from the floor and handed him to his
mother.
Here, Bridget, take Johnny, wash his face and put him on a clean
dress. I know he has another dress and it ought to be clean".
"Yes. He's got one you gave him, Miss Ady, but it aint clane at all.
Shure it's time to wash I'm wanting, it is".
"Now, don't tell me, Bridget, that you have not time to wash your
children's clothes and keep them decent. You need not spend so many
hours smoking your pipe over the ashes".
"You wouldn't deprive a poor cratur of all the comfort she has in the
world, would ye, hinny?"
"You ought to take comfort in keeping your house and children clean,
Bridget".
In the meanwhile, Bridget had washed Johnny's face, and there being no
clean dress ready for the little fellow, Adele said, "Come, Bridget,
put on a kettle of water, pick up your clothes, and do your washing".
"Shure, and I will, if ye say so, Miss Ady".
The poor shiftless thing having placed the baby on the floor again,
began to stir about and make ready.
Adele sat poking and turning over the chubby little Johnny with her
foot.
At last, Pat appeared with a moderate quantity of hemlock boughs,
which Adele told him to throw upon the floor,--then to hand her the
knife and sit down by her side and learn to make a broom. She
selected, clipped, and laid together the boughs, until she had made
quite a pile; sent Pat for a strong piece of twine and an old broom
handle and then secured the boughs firmly upon it.
"Now Pat", she said, "here is a nice, new jack-knife. If you will
promise me that you will cut boughs and make your mother two new
brooms, just like this, every week, the knife shall be yours".
Pat, with eyes that stood out an unmentionable distance, and mouth
stretched from ear to ear, promised, and Adele proceeded vigorously to
sweep the apartment. In the course of half an hour, the room wore a
wholly different aspect.
"And who tould the like of ye, how to make a brum like that, hinny?"
said Bridget, looking on in admiration of her skill.
"Nobody told me. I saw Aunt Patty McNab do it once. You see it is easy
to do. Now, Bridget, remember. Have your house clean after this, or I
will not come to see you".
"Yes, shure, I'll have them blessed brums as long's there's a tree
grows".
And true it was, that Adele's threat not to visit her cabin proved
such a salutary terror to poor Bridget, that there was a perceptible
improvement in her domestic arrangements ever after.
As Adele grew older, the ascendency she had obtained in her obscure
empire daily increased. At twelve, she was sent to a convent at
Halifax, where she remained three years. At the end of that period,
she returned to Miramichi, and resumed at once her regal sceptre. The
sway she held over the people was really one of love, grounded on a
recognition of her superiority. Circulating among them freely, she
became thoroughly acquainted with their habits and modes of living,
and she was ever ready to aid them, under their outward wants and
their deeper heart troubles. A community must have some one to look up
to, whether conscious of the want or not. Hero-worship is natural to
the human soul, and the miscellaneous group of women and children
scattered over the settlement, found in Adele a strong, joyous,
self-relying spirit, able to help them out of their difficulties, who
could cheer them when down-hearted, and spur them up when getting
discouraged or inefficient.
But, added to this were the charms of her youthful beauty, which even
the humblest felt, without perhaps knowing it, and an air of authority
that swept away all opposition, and held, at times, even Aunt Patty
McNab at arms' length. Yes, it must be confessed that the young lady
was in the habit of queening it over the people; but they were
perfectly willing to have it so, and both loved and were proud of
their little despot.
In the mean time, the Dubois family were living a life within a life,
to the _locale_ of which the render must now be introduced.
It has been said that the outward aspect of their dwelling was
respectable, and in that regard was not greatly at variance, except in
size, with the surrounding habitations. Within, however, there were
apartments furnished and adorned in such a manner as to betoken the
character and tastes of the inmates.
In the second story, directly over the spacious dining room already
described, there was a long apartment with two windows reaching nearly
to the floor. It was carpeted with crimson and black Brussels,
contained two sofas of French workmanship, made in a heavy, though
rich style, covered with cloth also of crimson and black; with chairs
fashioned and carved to match the couches, and finished in the same
material. A quaint-looking piano stood in one corner of the room. In
the centre was a Chinese lacquered table on which stood a lamp in
bronze, the bowl of which was supported by various broadly-smiling,
grotesque creatures, belonging to a genus known only in the domain of
fable.
On the evening following the burial of poor Pat McGrath, Mrs. Dubois
sat in this apartment, engaged in embroidering a fancy piece of dress
for Adele. That young lady was reclining upon a sofa, and was looking
earnestly at a painting of the Madonna, a copy from some old master,
hanging nearly opposite to her. It was now bathed in the yellow
moonlight, which heightened the wonderfully saintly expression in the
countenances of the holy mother and child.
"See! _ma bonne mere_, the blessed Marie looks down on us with a sweet
smile to-night".
"She always looks kindly upon us, _chere_, when we try to do right",
said Mrs. Dubois, smiling. "Doubtless you have tried to be good to-day
and she approves your effort".
"Now, just tell me, _ma chere mere_, how she would regard me to-night
if I had committed one wicked deed to-day".
"This same Marie looks sad and wistful sometimes, my Adele".
"True. But not particularly at _such_ times. It depends on which side
the light strikes the picture, whether she looks sad or smiling. Just
that, and nothing more. Now the moonlight gives her a smiling
expression. And please listen, _chere mere_. I have heard that there
is, somewhere, a Madonna, into whose countenance the old painter
endeavored to throw an air of profoundest repose. He succeeded. I have
heard that that picture has a strange power to soothe. Gazing upon it
the spirit grows calm and the voice unconsciously sinks into a
whisper. Our priests would tell the common people that it is a
miraculous influence exerted upon them by the Virgin herself, whereas
it is only the effect produced by the exquisite skill of the artist.
_Eh, bien!_ our church is full of superstitions".
"We will talk no more of it, _ma fille_. You do not love the holy
_Marie_ as you ought, I fear".
"Love her! indeed I do. She is the most blest and honored among
women,--the mother of the Saviour. But why should we pray to her, when
Jesus is the only intercessor for our sins with the Father? Why, _ma
chere mere_?"
_"Helas! ma fille_. You learned to slight the intercession of the holy
saints while you were at the convent. It is strange. I thought I could
trust you there".
"Do not think it the fault of the sisters, _chere mere_. They did
their duty. This way of thinking _came_ to me. I did not seek it,
indeed".
"How did it come to you, _ma pauvre fille_?"
"I will tell you. The first time I went into the convent parlor,
Sister Adrienne, thinking to amuse me, took me around the room and
showed me its curiosities. But I was filled, with an infinite disgust.
I did not distinctly know then why I was so sickened, but I understand
it all now".
"What did you see, Adele?"
"Eh! those horrid relics of saints,--those teeth, those bones, those
locks of hair in the cabinet. Then that awful skeleton of sister
Agnes, who founded the convent and was the first Abbess, covered with
wax and preserved in a crystal case! I thought I was in some
charnel-house. I could hardly breathe. Do you like such parlor
ornaments as those, _ma chere mere_?"
"Not quite".
"What do we want of the dry bones of the saints, when we have memoirs
of their precious lives? They would themselves spurn the superstition
that consecrates mere earthly dust. It nauseates me to think of it".
"_Procedez, ma fille_".
"My friend from the States, Mabel Barton, came to the convent, the day
I arrived. As our studies were the same, and as, at first, we were
both homesick, the sisters permitted us to be together much of the
time. _Eh! bien!_ I read her books, her Bible, and so light dawned.
She used to pray to the Father, through the Redeemer. I liked that way
best. But _ma mere_, our cathedral service is sublime. There is
nothing like _that_. Now you will forgive me. The arches, the altar,
the incense, the glorious surging waves of music,--these raised me and
Mabel, likewise, up to the lofty third heaven. How high, how holy we
felt, when we worshipped there. Because I like the cathedral, you will
forgive me for all I said before,--will you not, _ma chere mere_?"
Turning her head suddenly towards her mother, Adele saw her eyes
filled with tears.
"_Eh! ma chere mere, pardonnez moi_. I have pained you". And she rose
and flung her arms, passionately, around her mother's neck.
"_Pauvre fille!_" said the mother, returning her embrace mournfully,
"you will wander away from the church,--our holy church. It would not
have been thus, had we remained in sunny Picardy. _Eh! oublier je ne
puis_."
"What is it, _chere mere_", said Adele, "that you cannot forget? There
is something I have long wished to know. What was there, before you
came here to live? Why do you sometimes sit and look so thoughtful, so
sad and wishful? Tell me;--tell me, that I may comfort you".
"I will tell you all, Adele, yes,--all. It is time for you to know,
but--not to-night--not to-night".
"To-morrow then, _ma mere_?"
"Yes. Yes--to-morrow".
CHAPTER X.
PICARDY.
"Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him: but, weep sore for him
that goeth away: for he shall return no more, nor see his native
country". The prophet, who wrote these words, well knew the exile's
grief. He was himself an exile. He thought of Jerusalem, the city of
his home, his love, and his heart was near to breaking. He hung his
harp upon the willow; he sat down by the streams of Babylon and wept.
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