Adèle Dubois

CHAPTER V.

In a large apartment, in the second story of a tall, brick mansion on —— street, sat Mrs. Lansdowne. Susceptible though she was to the attractions of the scene before her, they did not now occupy her attention. Her brow was contracted with painful thought, her lip quivered with deep emotion. The greatest sorrow she had known had fallen upon her through the error of one whom she fondly loved.

Though enwrapped in a cloud of grief, one could see that she possessed beauty of a rich and rare type. She had the delicate, aquiline nose, the dark, lustrous eyes and hair, the finely arched eyebrows of the Hebrew woman. But she was no Jewess.

Mrs. Lansdowne could number in her ancestry men who had been notable leaders in the Revolutionary war with England, and, later in our history, others, who were remarkable for patriotism, nobility of character, intellectual ability, and high moral and religious culture.

Early in life, she had been united to Mr. Lansdowne, a gentleman moving in the same rank of society with herself. His health obliged him to give up the professional life he anticipated, and he had become a prosperous and enterprising merchant in his native city. They had an only child, a son eighteen years old, who in the progress of his collegiate course had just entered the senior year.

Edward Somers was Mrs. Lansdowne's only brother, her mother having died a week after his birth. She was eleven years of age at the time, and from that early period had watched over and loved him tenderly. He had grown up handsome and accomplished, fascinating in manners and most affectionate toward herself. She had learned that he had been engaged in what appeared, upon the face of it, a dishonorable affair, and her sensitive nature had been greatly shocked.

Two years before, Mr. Lansdowne had taken him as a junior partner in his business. He had since been a member of his sister's family.

A young foreigner had come to reside in the city, professing himself a member of a noble Italian family. Giuseppe Rossini was poet, orator, and musician. As poet and orator he was pleasing and graceful; as a musician he excelled. He was a brilliant and not obtrusive conversationalist. His enthusiastic expressions of admiration for our free institutions won him favor with all classes. In the fashionable circle he soon became a pet.

Mrs. Lansdowne had from the first distrusted him. There was no tangible foundation for her suspicions, but she had not been able to overcome a certain instinct that warned her from his presence. She watched, with misgivings of heart, her brother's growing familiarity with the Italian. A facility of temper, his characteristic from boyhood, made her fear that he might not be able to withstand the soft, insinuating voice that veils guilty designs by winning sophistics and appeals to sympathy and friendship. And so it proved.

One day, in extreme agitation, Rossini came to Mr. Somers, requesting the loan of a considerable sum of money, to meet demands made upon him. Remittances daily expected from Europe had failed to reach him. Mr. Somers was unable to command so large a sum as he required. His senior partner was absent from home. But the wily Rossini so won upon his sympathies, that he went to the private safe of his brother-in-law, and took from thence the money necessary to free his friend from embarrassment. He never saw the Italian again.

When the treachery of which he had been the victim burst upon him, together with his own weakness and guilt, he was filled with shame and remorse. Mr. Lansdowne was a man of stern integrity and uncompromising justice. He dared not meet his eye on his return, and he dreaded to communicate the unworthy transaction to his sister, who had so gently yet so faithfully warned him.

He made desperate efforts to get traces of the villain who had deceived him. Unsuccessful—maddened with sorrow and shame, he wrote a brief note of farewell to Mrs. Lansdowne, in which he confessed the wrong he had committed against her husband, which Mr. Lansdowne would reveal to her. He begged her to think as kindly of him as possible, averring that an hour before the deed was done, he could not have believed himself capable of it. Then he forsook the city.

When these occurrences were communicated to Mr. Lansdowne, he was filled with surprise and indignation,—not at the pecuniary loss, which, with his ample wealth, was of little moment to him, but on account of such imprudence and folly, where he least expected it.

A few hours, however, greatly modified his view of the case. He had found, in the safe, a note from Mr. Somers, stating the circumstances under which he had taken the money and also the disappearance of Rossini. This, together with his wife's distress, softened his feelings to such a degree that he consented to recall his brother and reinstate him in his former place in business.

But whither had the fugitive gone? Mrs Lansdowne found no clue to his intended destination.

During the morning of the day on which she is first introduced to the attention of the reader, she had visited his apartment to make a more thorough exploration. Looking around the room, she saw lying in the fireplace a bit of paper, half buried in the ashes. She drew it out, and after examining carefully found written upon it a few words that kindled a new hope in her heart. Taking it to her husband, a consultation was held upon its contents and an expedition planned, of which an account will be given in the next chapter.

She was now the prey of conflicting emotions. The expedition, which had that day been arranged, involved a sacrifice of feeling on her part, greater she feared than she would be able to make.

But in order to recover her brother to home, honor, and happiness, it seemed necessary to be made. Voices from the dead were pleading at her heart incessantly, urging her, at whatever cost, to seek and save him, who, with herself, constituted the only remnant of their family left on earth. Her own affection for him also pressed its eloquent suit, and at last the decision was confirmed. She resolved to venture her son in the quest.

In the mean time, the sunset hues had faded from the sky and evening had approached. The golden full moon had risen and was now shining in at the broad window, bringing into beautiful relief the delicate tracery on the high cornices, the rich carvings of the mahogany furniture, and striking out a soft sheen from Mrs. Lansdowne's black satin dress, as she moved slowly to and fro, through the light.

She seated herself once more at the window and gazed upon the lovely orb of night. A portion of its serenity entered and tranquillized her soul. The cloud of care and anxiety passed from her brow, leaving it smooth and pure as that of an angel.

CHAPTER VI.

Aunt Esther's complexion was of a pure shining black, her features of the size and cut usually accompanying that hue, and lighted up by a contented, sunshiny expression, which truly indicated the normal state of her mind. A brilliant, yellow turban sat well upon her woolly locks and a blue and red chintz dress, striped perpendicularly, somewhat elongated the effect of her stout dumpy figure. She had taken care of John during his babyhood and early boyhood, and he remained to this day her especial pet and pride.

"Aunt Esther", said that young man, throwing himself into an easy-chair, and assuming as lackadaisical an expression as his frank and roguish face would allow, "I have just lost a friend".

"Yer have?" said his old nurse, looking round compassionately.

When did yer lose him?"

"About an hour ago".

"What did he die of, Massa John?"

"Of a painful nervous disease", said he.

"How old was he?"

"A few years younger than I am".

"Did he die hard?"

"Very hard, Aunt Esther", said John, looking solemn.

"Had yer known him long?"

"Yes, a long time".

Aunt Esther gave a deep sigh. "Does yer know weder he was pious?"

"Well, here he is. Perhaps you can tell by looking at him", said he, handing her a tooth, he had just had extracted, and bursting into a boyish laugh.

"O! yer go along, Massa John. I might hev knowed it was one of yer deceitful tricks", said Aunt Esther, trying to conceal her amusement, by putting on an injured look. "There, the fire burns now. Yer jest put on them dry clothes as quick as ever yer can, or mebbe ye'll lose another friend before long".

"It shall be done as you say, beloved Aunt Esther", said he, rising and bowing profoundly, as she left the room.

Having obeyed the worthy woman's injunction, he drew the easy-chair to the fire, leaned his head back and spent the next half hour hovering between consciousness and dreamland.

From this state, he was roused by a gentle tap on his door, followed by his mother's voice, saying, "John, dear?"

John rose instantly, threw the door wide open and ushered in the lady, saying, "Come in, little queen mother, come in", and bowing over her hand with a pompous, yet courtly grace.

Mrs. Lansdowne, when seen a short time since walking in her solitude, seemed quite lofty in stature, but now, standing for a moment beside the regal height of her son, one could fully justify him in bestowing upon her the title with which he had greeted her.

John Lansdowne was fast developing, physically as well as mentally into a noble manhood, and it was no wonder that his mother's heart swelled with pride and joy when she looked upon him. Straight, muscular, and vigorous in form, his features and expression were precisely her own, enlarged and intensified. Open and generous in disposition, his character had a certain quality of firmness, quite in contrast with that of his uncle Edward, and this she had carefully sought to strengthen. In the pursuit of his studies, he had thus far been earnest and successful.

During the last half year, however, he had chafed under the confinements of student life, and having now become quite restive in the harness, he had asked his father for a few months of freedom from books. He wished to explore a wilderness, to go on a foreign voyage, to wander away, away, anywhere beyond the sight of college walls.

"John", said Mrs. Lansdowne, "I have been conversing with your father on the subject, and he has consented to an expedition for you".

"O! glorious! mother where am I to go? to the Barcan desert, or to the Arctic Ocean?"

"You are to make a journey to the Miramichi River?"

"Miramichi!" said John, after a brief pause, "I thought I had a slight acquaintance with geography, but where in the wide world is Miramichi?"

"It is in the province of New Brunswick. You will have seventy-five miles of almost unbroken wilderness to pass through".

"Seventy-five miles of wilderness! magnificent! where's my rifle, mother? I haven't seen it for an age".

"Don't be so impetuous, John. This journey through the wilderness will be anything but magnificent. You will meet many dangers by the way and will encounter many hardships".

"But, mother, what care I for the perils of the way. Look at that powerful member", stretching out his large, muscular arm.

"Don't trust too much in that, John. Your strong arm is a good weapon, but you may meet something yet that is more than a match for it".

"Possibly", said John, with a sceptical air, "but when am I to start, mother?"

"To-morrow".

"To-morrow! that is fine. Well! I must bestir myself", said he, rising.

"Not to-night, my dear. You've nothing to do at present. Arrangements are made. Be quiet, John. We may not sit thus together again for a long while".

"True, mother", said he, reseating himself. "But how did you happen to think of Miramichi?" he asked, after a pause.

"That is what I must explain to you. Your uncle Edward has committed an act of imprudence which he fancies your father will not forgive him. He has left us without giving any information of his destination. We hope you will find him in New Brunswick, and this is your errand. You must seek him and bring him back to us".

John had been absent at the time of Mr. Somers's departure, and, without making definite inquiries, supposed him to be away on ordinary business.

After his first surprise at his mother's announcement, he was quite silent for a few moments.

Then he said, firmly, "If he is there, I will find him".

Mrs. Lansdowne did not explain to him the nature of her brother's offence, but simply communicated her earnest desire for his return. Then going together to the library they consulted the map of Maine and New Brunswick. Mr. Lansdowne joined them,—the route was fully discussed, and John retired to dream of the delights of a life untrammelled by college, or city walls.

CHAPTER VII.

After many affectionate counsels and adieus from his parents, John, mounted on the gallant Cæsar, with his rifle and portmanteau, posted on at a rapid rate, soon leaving the city far behind.

The position of one who sits confidently upon the back of a brave and spirited horse, is surely enviable. The mastery of a creature of such strength and capacity—whose neck is clothed with thunder—the glory of whose nostrils is terrible, gives to the rider a sense of freedom and power not often felt amidst the common conditions of life. No wonder that the Bedouin of the desert, crafty, cringing, abject in cities, when he mounts his Arab steed and is off to the burning sands, becomes dignified and courteous. Liberty and power are his. They elevate him for the time in the scale of existence.

John was a superb rider. From his first trial, he had sat on horseback, firm and kingly.

He and Cæsar apparently indulged in common emotions on this morning of their departure from home. They did not it is true "smell the battle afar off, the thunder of the captains and the shouting", but they smelt the wilderness, the wild, the fresh, the free, and they said ha! ha! And so they sped on their long journey.

The young man made a partial acquaintance with lumbering operations at Bangor; had his sublime ideas of the nobility of the aborigines of the country somewhat discomposed by the experience of a day spent in the Indian settlement at Oldtown; found a decent shelter at Mattawamkeag Point, and, at last, with an exultant bound of heart, struck into the forest.

The only road through this solitary domain was the rough path made by lumbermen, in hauling supplies to the various camps, scattered at intervals through the dense wilderness, extending seventy-five miles, from Mattawamkeag Point to the British boundary.

Here Nature was found in magnificent wildness and disarray, her hair quite unkempt. Great pines, shooting up immense distances in the sky skirted the path and flung their green-gray, trailing mosses abroad on the breeze; crowds of fir, spruce, hemlock, and cedar trees stood waving aloft their rich, dark banners; clusters of tall, white birches, scattered here and there, relieved and brightened the sombre evergreen depths, and the maple with its affluent foliage crowned each swell of the densely covered land. Here and there, a scarlet tree or bush shot out its sanguine hue, betokening the maturity of the season and the near approach of autumn's latest splendor. Big boulders of granite, overlaid with lichens, were profusely ornamented with crimson creepers. Everything appeared in splendid and wasteful confusion. There were huge trees with branches partially torn away; others, with split trunks leaning in slow death against their fellows; others, prostrate on the ground; and around and among all, grew brakes and ferns and parasitic vines; and nodded purple, red, and golden berries.

The brown squirrels ran up and down the trees and over the tangled rubbish, chirping merrily; a few late lingering birds sang little jerky notes of music, and the woodpecker made loud tapping sounds which echoed like the strokes of the woodman's axe. The air was rich and balmy,—spiced with cedar, pine, and hemlock, and a thousand unknown odors.

The path through this wild of forest was rude and difficult, but the travellers held on their way unflinchingly,—the horse with unfaltering courage and patience, and his rider with unceasing wonder and delight.

At noon they came to a halt, just where the sun looked down golden and cheery on a little dancing rivulet that babbled by the wayside. Here Cæsar received his oats, for which his master had made room in his portmanteau, at the expense, somewhat, of his own convenience. The young man partook of a hearty lunch and resigned himself to dreams of life under the greenwood tree.

After an hour's rest, again in the saddle and on—on, through recurring scenes of wildness, waste, and beauty. Just as the stars began to glint forth and the traveller and horse felt willing perhaps to confess to a little weariness, they saw the light of the expected cabin fire in the distance. Cæsar gave a low whinny of approval and hastened on.

Two or three red-shirted, long-bearded men gave them a rude welcome. They blanketed and fed Cæsar, and picketed him under a low shed built of logs.

John, as hungry as a famished bear, drank a deep draught of a black concoction called tea, which his friends here presented to him, ate a powerful piece of dark bread, interlarded with fried pork, drew up with the others around the fire, and, in reply to their curious questionings, gave them the latest news from the outside world.

For this information he was rewarded by the strange and stirring adventures of wilderness life they related during the quickly flitting evening hours.

They told of the scores who went into the forest in the early part of winter, not to return until late in the spring; of snow-storms and packs of wolves; of herds of deer and moose; they related thrilling stories of men crushed by falling trees, or jammed between logs in the streams, together with incidents of the long winter evenings, usually spent by them in story telling and card playing. Thus he became acquainted with the routine of camp life.

Wearied at last with the unaccustomed fatigues of the day, he wrapped himself in his cloak, placed his portmanteau under his head for a pillow and floated off to dreamland, under the impression that this gypsying sort of life, was just the one of all others he should most like to live.

The following morning, the path of our traveller struck through a broad reach of the melancholy, weird desolation, called a burnt district. He rode out, suddenly, from the dewy greenness and balm-breathing atmosphere of the unblighted forest, into sunshine that poured down in torrents from the sky, falling on charred, shining shafts and stumps of trees, and a brilliant carpet of fireweed.

It is nearly impossible to give one who has not seen something of the kind, an adequate impression of the peculiar appearance of such a region. The strange, grotesque-looking stems, of every imaginable shape, left standing like a company of black dwarfs and giants scattered over the land, some of them surmounted with ebony crowns; some, with heads covered like olden warriors, with jetty helmets; some with brawny, long arms stretched over the pathway as if to seize the passer by, and all with feet planted, seemingly in deep and flaming fire. How quickly nature goes about repairing her desolations! So great in this case is her haste to cover up the black, unseemly surface of the earth, that, from the strange resemblance of the weed with which she clothes it to the fiery elements, it would seem as if she had not yet been able to thrust the raging glow out of her fancy, and so its type has crept again over the blighted spot.

John rode on over the glowing ground, the black monsters grimacing and scowling at him as he passed. What a nice eerie place this would be thought he for witches, wizards, and all Satan's gentry, of every shape and hue, to hold their high revels in. And he actually began to shout the witches song—

"Black spirits and white,
 Red spirits and gray".

At which adjuration, Cæsar, doubtless knowing who were called upon, pricked up his ears and started on a full run, probably not wishing to find himself in such company just at that time.

An establishment similar to the one that had sheltered him the night previous, proffered its entertainment at the close of our adventurer's second day. The third day in the wilderness was signalized by an incident, which excited such triumphant emotions as to cause it to be long remembered. About an hour subsequent to his noon halt, as he and Cæsar were proceeding along at a moderate pace, he heard a rustling, crackling noise on the right side of the path and suddenly a deer, frightened and panting, flew across the road, turned for a moment an almost human, despairing look toward him, plunged into the tangled under-growth on the left and was gone from sight. John drew his reins instantly, bringing his horse to a dead stand, loosened his rifle from his shoulder and after examining it closely, remained quiet. His patience was not taxed by long waiting. Within the space of two minutes, there was another sharp crunching and crackling of dry boughs, when a wolf, large, gray, and fierce, sprang into the path from the same opening, following on the trail of the deer. He had nearly crossed the narrow road in hot pursuit and was about springing into the thicket beyond, when an accidental turn of his head brought our hero suddenly to his attention. He stopped, as if struck by a spell of enchantment.

Whiz! the ball flew. The very instant it struck, the bloodthirsty monster fell dead. When John reached the spot, there was scarcely the quiver of a limb, so well had the work of death been accomplished. Yet the wolfish face grinned still a savage, horrible defiance.

"Here, Cæsar", he exclaimed, in a boastful tone, "do you know that this old fellow lying here, won't get the drink out of the veins of that dainty creature he was so thirsty for? No! nor ever cheat any sweet little Red Riding Hood into thinking him her grandmother? This is the last of him. Didn't I do the neat thing, Cæsar?"

Cæsar threw his head on one side, with an air of admiration and gave a low whinny, that betokened a state of intense satisfaction at the whole transaction.

It may appear frivolous to those who have read with unwavering credulity the olden tales of the prowess and achievements of knights errant in the days of chivalry, that one should stop to relate such a commonplace incident as the shooting of a wolf, and above all, that the hero of this narrative, should betray, even to his horse, such a decided emotion of self admiration for having performed the feat. Such a trifle would not indeed be worth mentioning in company with the marvellous deeds and mysterious sorceries of the old romaunt, but this being a true story, the hero young, and this the first game of the kind he has yet brought down, it must be excused.

After a critical examination of his victim, our traveller mounted his horse and proceeded on his journey, much gratified at his afternoon's work, and inwardly resolving how he would make the eyes of James and Aunt Esther stand out, while listening to the account of it he should give them, on his return home.

In about seventeen days after his departure from P., John safely accomplished his journey. Amidst the subsequent hardships, rough fare and toils of that journey, which, in truth, thirty-five years ago, were things not to be laughed at, he had a constant satisfaction in the recollection of having, with one keen shot, killed a large, fierce, gray wolf.

CHAPTER VIII.

"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 Adèle.

"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.

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.

Adèle'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.

Adèle 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, Adèle 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.

Adèle sat poking and turning over the chubby little Johnny with her foot.

At last, Pat appeared with a moderate quantity of hemlock boughs, which Adèle 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 Adèle 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 Adèle'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 Adèle 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 Adèle 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 Adèle. 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 mère, the blessed Marie looks down on us with a sweet smile to-night".

"She always looks kindly upon us, chère, 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 chère mère, 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 Adèle".

"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, chère mère. 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 chère mère?"

"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, chère mère. 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, Adèle?"

"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 chère mère?"

"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 mère, 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 chère mère?"

Turning her head suddenly towards her mother, Adèle saw her eyes filled with tears.

"Eh! ma chère mère, 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, chère mère", said Adèle, "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, Adèle, yes,—all. It is time for you to know, but—not to-night—not to-night".

"To-morrow then, ma mère?"

"Yes. Yes—to-morrow".

CHAPTER X.

Nor was the prophet singular in his experience of the woes of exile. We have heard of the lofty-spirited Dante, wandering from city to city, carrying with him, in banishment, irrepressible and unsatisfied yearnings for his beloved Florence; we have seen the Greek Islander, borne a captive from home, sighing, in vain, for the dash and roar of his familiar seas; we have seen the Switzer, transplanted to milder climes and more radiant sides, yet longing for the stern mountain forms, the breezes and echoes of his native land. Ah! who does not remember, with a shudder, the despairing thoughts, choking tears, and days of silent misery that clouded his own boyhood, and perhaps even some days of his early manhood?

Oublier je ne puis. Poor lady! she had been homesick twenty years.

On the afternoon following the conversation recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Dubois was ready to unfold to Adèle the story of her past life. They were sitting in the parlor. The golden glory of the September sun gave an intense hue to the crimson furniture, lighted up the face of the Madonna with a new radiance, and touched the ivory keys of the piano with a fresh polish. Adèle's eyes were fixed with eager expectation upon her mother.

"You know, ma chère", Mrs. Dubois began, "we once lived in France. But you cannot know, I trust you never may, what it cost us to leave our beautiful Picardy,—what we have suffered in remaining here, exiled in this rude country. Yet then it seemed our best course. Indeed, we thought there was no other path for us so good as this. We were young, and did not enough consider, perhaps, what such a change in our life involved. I must tell you, my Adèle, how it came about.

In the province of Picardy not many miles from the city of Amiens, there was a fine, but not large estate, bordering on the River Somme. A long avenue of poplars led from the main road up a gentle slope until it opened upon a broad, green plateau of grass, studded with giant trees, the growth of centuries. Here and there were trim little flower-beds, laid out in a variety of fantastic shapes, with stiff, glossy, green, closely-clipped borders of box. And, what was my childish admiration and delight, there was a fountain that poured itself out in oozing, dripping drops from the flowing hair and finger tips of a marble Venus, just rising in the immense basin and wringing out her locks. Then the park,—there was none more beautiful, more stately, extending far back to the banks of the Somme, where birds sat on every bough and the nightingale seemed to pour its very heart away, singing so thrillingly and so long. I hear the liquid notes now, my Adèle, so tender, so sweet! At the end of the avenue of poplars of which I spoke stood the chateau, with the trim flower-beds in front. It was built of brown stone, not much ornamented externally, with four round towers, one in each corner. Though not as old as some of those castles, it had been reared several centuries before, by a Count de Rossillon, who owned the estate and lived on it.

In that chateau, I first saw the light of day, and there I spent my happy childhood and youth.

The estate of Rossillon had been bequeathed by the will of my grandfather, to his two sons. The elder, the present Count de Rossillon, inherited the larger portion; my father, the younger son, the smaller share.

My father was a Bonapartist, and at the time of his marriage held a high rank in the army. During his absence from the country, my mother resided at the chateau with her brother-in-law, the Count.

One day in June, news arrived of the sudden death of my father. It was communicated to my mother, by the messenger who brought it, without precaution. That night, one hour after, I was ushered into an orphaned existence and my mother took her departure from the world. Think of me, Adèle, thus thrown a waif upon the shore of life. Yet, though born in the shadow of a great sorrow, sunlight struck across my path.

The faithful bonne, who had taken care of my mother in her infancy and had never left her, now took charge of me. She watched over me faithfully and filled up my childhood with affectionate attention and innocent pastime. My uncle, the Count, who had never been married, loved, petted, and indulged me in every wish. When I grew old enough, he secured a governess well qualified to teach and discipline me. Under her care, with the aid of masters in Latin, music, and drawing, from Amiens, I went through the course of instruction considered necessary for young ladies at that time.

I was at your age my Adèle when I first met your father. He was not the bronzed and careworn man you see him now. Ah! no. He was young and gay, with a falcon glance and, black wreathing locks hanging over his white, smooth brow. His father was of noble blood, and sympathized warmly with the dethroned Bourbons. He was no lover of the great Consul. The political troubles in France had operated in ways greatly to impoverish his house.

He owned and occupied only the remnant of what had been a large estate, adjoining that of the Count de Rossillon.

While acquiring his education, your father, except at occasional intervals, was six years from home, and it so happened that I never met him in my childhood. Indeed, the families were not on terms of intimacy. On his return from the University, I first saw him. Eh! bien! It is the same old story that you have heard and read of, in your books, my Adèle. We became acquainted, I will not stop now, to tell you how, and soon learned to love each other. Time passed on, and at last your father sought the consent of my uncle, to our marriage. But he put aside the proposition with anger and scorn. He thought that Claude Dubois was neither distinguished nor rich enough to match his niece. In his heart, he had reserved me for some conspicuous position in the great circle at Paris, while I had given myself to an obscure youth in Picardy.

Your father was too honorable to ask me to marry him without the consent of the Count, and too proud to take me in his poverty. So one day, after his stormy interview with my uncle, he came to me and said he was going away to endeavor to get fame, or wealth, to bestow upon me and make himself more worthy in the eyes of the Count de Rossillon. Yet he wished to release me from any feeling of obligation to him, as, he said, I was too young and had too little acquaintance with life and society to know fully my own heart. It would not be right, he thought, to bind me to himself by any promise. I told him my affection for him would never change, but acquiesced in his arrangements with a sad and foreboding heart. In a few weeks, he embarked for India.

Then my uncle roused himself from the inertia of his quiet habits and made arrangements for a journey through France and Italy, which he said I was to take with him.

I received the announcement with indifference, being wholly occupied with grief at the bitter separation from your father. The change however proved salutary, and, in a week after our departure, I felt hope once more dawning in my heart.

The country through which we travelled was sunny and beautiful, veined with sparkling streams, shadowed by forests, studded with the olive and mulberry, and with vines bearing the luscious grape for the vintage. The constant change of scene and the daily renewal of objects of interest and novelty, combined with the elasticity of youth, brought back some degree of my former buoyancy and gayety. My uncle was so evidently delighted with the return of my old cheerfulness, and exerted himself so much to heighten it in every way, that I knew he sincerely loved me, and was doing what he really thought would in the end contribute to my happiness. He judged that my affection for your father was a transient, youthful dream, and would soon be forgotten; he fancied, no doubt, I was even then beginning to wake up from it. He wished to prevent me from forming an early and what he considered an imprudent marriage, which I might one day regret, unavailingly.

And it proved to be all right, my Adèle. Your father and I were both young, and the course the Count de Rossillon took with us, was a good though severe test of our affection. In the meanwhile, I was secretly sustained by the hope that your father's efforts would be crowned with success, and that, after a few years, he would return and my uncle, having found, that nothing could draw me from my attachment to him, would out of his own love for me and consideration for my happiness, at last consent to our union.

We crossed the Alps and went into Italy. Here a new world was opened to me,—a world of beauty and art. It bestowed upon me many hours of exquisite enjoyment. The Count travelled with his own carriage and servants, and we lingered wherever I felt a desire to prolong my observations. He purchased a collection of pictures, statues, and other gems and curiosities of art. Among the rest, the Madonna there, my Adèle, which he presented to me, because I so much liked it. But I must not linger now. On our return to France, we spent a month at Paris, and there, though too young to be introduced into society, I met in private many distinguished and fashionable people, who were friends of the Count.

We were absent from the chateau one year. It was pleasant to get back to the dear old place, where I had spent such a happy childhood, the scene too of so many precious interviews with your beloved father. We returned again to our former life of quiet ease, enlivened at frequent intervals by the visits of guests from abroad and by those of friends and acquaintances among the neighboring nobility. Though I received no tidings from your father, a secret hope still sustained me. A few times only, during the first three years of his absence, did I lose my cheerfulness. Those were, when some lover pressed his suit and I knew that in repelling it, I was upsetting some cherished scheme of my uncle. But I will do him the justice to say that he bore it patiently, and, only at long intervals, gave vent to his vexation and disappointment.

It was when my hope concerning your father's return began to fail, and anxiety respecting his fate began to be indulged in its stead, that my spirits gave way. At the close of the fourth year of his absence, my peace was wholly gone and my days were spent in the restless agony of suspense. My health was rapidly failing, and my uncle who knew the cause of my prostration, instead of consulting a physician, in the kindness of his heart, took me to Paris. But the gayeties to which I was there introduced were distasteful to me. I grew every moment more sad. Just when my uncle was in despair, I was introduced accidentally to the Countess de Morny, a lovely lady, who had lost her husband and three children, and had passed through much sorrow.

Gradually, she drew me to her heart and I told her all my grief. She dealt very tenderly with me, my Adèle. She did not seek to cheer me by inspiring fresh hopes of your father's return. No. She told me, I might never be Claude Dubois's happy bride, but that I might be the blessed bride of Jesus. In short, she led me gently into the consolations of our Holy Church. Under her influence and guidance I came into a state of sweet resignation to the divine will,—a peaceful rest indeed, after the terrible alternations of suspense and despair I had suffered. But, my Adèle, it was only by constant prayers to the blessed Marie that my soul was kept from lapsing into its former state of dreadful unrest. Ma chère Adèle, you know not what you do, when you speak slightingly of our Holy Church. I should then have died, had I not found rest in my prayers to the blessed mother. Now, you are young and gay, but the world is full of sorrow. It may overtake you as it did me. Then you will need a hope, a consolation, a refuge. There is no peace like that found at the foot of the cross, imploring the intercession of the compassionate, loving Marie. Do not wander away from the sweet eyes of the mother of Christ, ma fille".

Here Mrs. Dubois ceased speaking, and turned a tearful, affectionate gaze upon her daughter. Adèle's eyes, that had been fixed upon her mother with earnest, absorbed attention, filled with tears, instantly.

"Ma chère mère, I would not make you unhappy. I will try not to give you pain. Please go on and tell me all".

"Eh! bien! ma chère, my uncle was pleased to see me becoming more peaceful. Finding I was not attracted by the pleasures of the gay city, he proposed our return to the chateau, and begged the Countess de Morny to accompany us. At my urgent request, she consented.

On the day of our arrival, the Countess weary with the journey, having gone to her own apartments, I went to stroll in the beautiful, beloved park. It was June,—that month so full of leaves, flowers, birds, and balmy summer winds. I sat at the foot of an old beech-tree, leaning my head against its huge trunk, listening to the flow of the river, indulging in dangerous reverie,—dangerous certainly to my peace of mind. Suddenly, I was startled by the sound of footsteps. Before I could collect my scattered senses, your father stood before me. 'Marie,' he said, 'Marie.'

For one moment, I met his earnest, questioning gaze, and then rushed into his open arms. In short, he had come back from India, not a rich man, but with a competence, and when he found I had not forgotten him, but had clung to him still, through those weary years of absence, he resolved to see the Count de Rossillon and renew the request he had made four years previous.

My uncle, though much surprised at his sudden appearance, received him politely, if not cordially. When your father had laid before him a simple statement of our case, he replied frankly.