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32X

THE

:^rEW PRIEST

1^ COXCEPTIOIS^ BAY.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

ANTONY BRADE. A Story of a School.
i6mo. Cloth. Price ^1.75.

" A book for boys about boys, — at school, at play,
at home, in mischief, at work, in good company, in
the fields, on the ice, with the servants, in the streets,
in the church, on the amateur stage; in fact, doing just
what boys do and saying just wliat boys say, not only
in America, but all over the world. A wholesome and
deligiitful story." — London Bookseller.

A STORY OR TWO FROM AN OLD
DUTCH TOWN. I. Abram Van Zandt,
the Man in the Picture. II. Mr. Scher-
merhorn's Marriage and Widowhood. III.
Master Vorhagen's Wife. i6mo. Cloth.
Price $1.25.

" We have here three stories, simply told, but each
with its peculiar central figure, and its separate group-
ing of secondary characters and incidents; while a unity
is given to the volume by the old Dutch town where
the scene of all three is laid, and the time-marks desig-
nating the period when the stillness of Dutch life in the
interior of New York was just beginning to be disturbed
by the invasions of Anglo-Saxon activity and enter-
prise." — Boston Transcript.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers,

BOSTO N.

THE

NEW PRIEST

IN CONCEPTION BAY.

ROBERT LOWELL.

ATXivov, aiXivov, eme, to 8* €v vikutco.

iESCH. AOAMIIM.

Woe! woe!
But right, at last, though slow.

BOSTON":

ROBERTS BROTHERS.

1889.

LU-

All nights Reserved.

tlmiirtniiB {IrtM:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridok.

One, to whom I owe all, will He take this

AT MY HAND, THE BEST I HAVE?

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

THIS book was given out long ago, without
the author's name, with a ihittering of lieart,
but with a strong liope of winning liking and
praise, which men love. The beings that he had
made were to the maker living and fresh, and of
that better manhood whose life — having more
or less wealth, knowing more or knowing less —
is of the true life. Their sea and sky and land
and weather, and their ways, as he had drawn
them, he knew to be true. Might not, then, all
be to others living and fresh and true as to him ?

The book was taken kindly then and when
republished.

Having been for years out of print, " The New
Priest " is to be sent forth afresh ; and the au-
thor has gone over it all, touching it in very many
places, shading and lighting here and there, —
making it, it is hoped, better.

Schenectady, May 31, 1889.

FOREWORDS TO FIRST EDITION.

Religious novels there are many; this is not one
of them.

These Figures, of gentle, simple, sad, and merry,
were drawn (not in a Day) upon the walls of a House
of Exile.* Will the great World care for them ?

• A willing exile, as a Church-missionary, in Newfoundland.

CONTENTS.

Chapter _

Bkfoue the First. A Setting op our Scene ... 13

I. A Rare Intruder ^^

II. Mus. Barre anu Miss Dare 24

JII. A I'RiiTTY Scene and its Ureaking-up . . 30

IV. A Walk and the End of it 42

V. A FEW Moaifnts of two Young People's

Lives a-j

VI. A Written Rock, and something More . 61
VII. True Words are soMETniEs very Heavy . . 5«>

VIII. Skipper George's Story ^7

IX. A Meeting ge

X. Some Gossip and some Real Life .... 94

XI. Two Meet Again 93

XII. A Sad Young Heart jq?

XIII. A Great Loss iio

XIV. A New Man 223

XV. Traces of the Lost iqa

XVI. Searching Still 145

XVII. Which Way Suspicion leads 154

XVIIL The Day for Rest jgQ

XIX. Suspected Persons jgg

XX. An Official Examination from which

something appears 175

XXI. An Old Smuggler jg^

CONTENTS.

Chapter
XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.

XLVII.

XLVIII.

XLIX.

Paob

An Interview or Two who hate met

BEFORE 197

The New Priest at Bay-Harbor . . . 202

A Call at a Nunnery 212

The Magistrate deals with other Sus-
picious Persons 227

Mr. Bangs has an Interview with the

Head of the Mission 238

Another Relic found 249

Mr. Bangs a Neophyte 254

Miss Dare's Expedition with an Escort 270

Across the Barrens 282

Miss Fanny Dare Reports 291

High Mass 295

The Graveyard makes Strange Meet-
ings 304

Mr. Wellon tries to do Something . . 311

A Station at Henran's Inn 318

The Tribunal of Penitence 323

Father Debree at Bay-Harbor again . 335

Father O'Toole's Assistant 343

The three Priests together 351

A Miracle 363

Examination 372

A Night's Boat-Racb 385

What Father Debree was told, etc. . 397

The two Priests and a third .... 403

Quite another Scene 419

Father Debree's Walk from Bay-Har-
bor 426

An Opening into Father Debree's Heart 438

Father De Brie doubts 441

A Stranger approaches Ladford . . . 450

CONTENTS. xi

Chapteb Pagb

L. Father De Brie determines, and departs . 463

LI. The Trial 474

LII. The Last of Ladford 435

LIIL Strange Happenings 499

LIV. The Ghost again 511

LV. Mrs. Calloran's Revelations 5I6

LVI. Lucy's Home-Coming 523

LVII. A Last Interview 530

LVIII. Father De Brie is waited for, and sought . 548

LIX. The Wife's Meeting 558

LX. Father Terence, to the Last 666

LXI. Mrs. Barre afterwards 508

LXII. The End of All 509

THE STORY OF THE NEW PRIEST.

A CHAPTER BEFORE THE FIRST.

A SETTING OF OUR SCENE.

UP go the surges on the coast of Newfoundhird, and
down again into the sea. The huge island stands,
with its sheer, beetling cliffs, out of the ocean ; believed,
for a great part of its three hundred years, to be a mon-
strous mass of rock and gravel, almost without soil, — a
strange thing from tiie bottom of the great deep, lifted
up suddenly into sunshine and storm, but belonging to
the watery darkness out of wliich it had been reared.
Inland all was untrodden and uuguessed.

Avalon — a bit at the southeastern corner, almost cut
off, and where most of the people have lived, to be near
the fish — is rocky, indeed. The eye accustomed to
softer scenes finds something of startling beauty in its
bold, hard outlines against the sky. It has been the
home of hardy, faithful, kindly people.

Among these lies the scene of our story.

CHAPTER I.

A RARE INTRUDER.

jHIRTY years ago, or longer, one bright day in
August, the Church missionary, the Reverend Ar-
thur Wellon, left his house in Peterport, with
strong step, and swinging his cane ; a stoutly-built Eng-
lishman, of good height, not very handsome, but open,
kindly, intelligent, and reverend-looking ; in dress just
grave enough and just enough unlike other gentlemen to
mark his office to those who would not know it from his
face. He is the central person, though not the chief
actor, in our story. This is what was thought of him :

He was a frank and kindly man ; straightforward,
honest, and, in a rather homely way, a little humorous.
He had seen something of the world, in living thirty
years, and to good purpose ; had a mind large enough
(because it opened into his heart) to take in more things
than the mere habits of his order or his social rank ; and
while he loved, heartily, the faith and services of the
Church, he had that common sense without which Eng-
lish folk would never have got and kept our Common
Prayer. He was a good scholar, too, as well as a good
parish priest. " The Pareson," his people called him.

When near his gate, without turning, he called, with
mock sternness, " Epictetus ! " — A dog's black head

THE NEW PRIEST.

rubbed his hand softly ; and he patted and stroked it.
As thej went down the harbor he broke forth, now and
then, in a cheery snatch of (not profane) song.

The first turn in the road brought him in sight of two
persons walking in company in advance of him, — a gentle-
man of about his own age, and looking like a clergyman,
and a tuU, large, strongly-moulded fisherman of some
sixty years. The former seemed to be listening, rather
than talking, while his companion spoke earnestly, as
appeared from his homely gestures.

On the hill-top, near Bcachy Cove, (named from its
strip of sand and shingle edging the shore,) they stood
still ; and Mr. Wellou, who was not far behind them,
could scarcely help hearing what was said. The fisher-
man btill spoke ; his voice and manner having the gentle-
ness an(' modesty almost of a child. On one arm was
hanging a coil of small rope ; and in the hand he held,
with a carefulness that never forsook him, a bright-
colored seaweed. The gentleman listened to him as if
he had the honeyed speech of Nestor. It was some
story of the sea, apparently, that he was telling, or
commenting upon.

Our pastor looked curiously toward the group, as they
stood, not noticing him ; and then, after a momentary hesi-
tation, went across a little open green, and into the enclos-
ure of a plain, modest-looking house, about which creepers
and shrubs and flowers, here and tiiere, showed taste and
will more than common. Epictetus, having loitered his
little while near the talkers, came — a noble great black
fellow — to his master, here, and waited at his side, as he
stood before the door, after knocking.

The parting words of the stranger, thanking his com-
panion for his society in their walk, and of the stout fisher-

A BARK INTRUDER.

man turning meekly back the thanks, came throngh the
still air, across from where they stood.

" It was very good of 'ee, sir," said the latter, " to come
along wi* me, and hear my poor talk. — I wish 'ee a very
good mornin, sir, an' I '11 carry this bit of a thing to my
mjiid,* please God. One o' the nighbors sen'd it. She
makes a many bright things o' such."

When he had done speaking, his strong steps were
heard as he wen on his way, alone ; for the whole scene
was as it had been for hours, still and quiet, as if, in going
to their fishing, the people had left no life behind them.
There had been scarce a moving thing, (if the eye sought
one,) save a light reek from a chimney, (a fairer thing, as it
floated over the poor man's dwelling, than ducal or royal
banner,) and a lone white summer-cloud, low over the earth;
where the wind, taking holiday elsewhere, left it to itself.

Finding that Mrs. Barre, for whom he asked, had
walked down the harbor with Miss Dare, Mr. Wellon
went forth again, toward the road.

At the top of the hill, where he had stood with the
fisherman, the stranger was still standing, now gazing
over the water, toward the hills in the far southwest ; a
very striking and interesting looking person he was. It
was impossible for a well-bred man to go by without salu-
tation, and the dog loitered. The stranger returned Mr.
Wellon's greeting gracefully, and came forward.

" This atmosphere becomes the scane extremely ! " he
said, as if sure of speaking to a kindred taste.

His way was very taking ; and there was a realness
(and no affectation) in his speech. He was fine, too, in
face and person; with features full of life; a fresh hue;
eyes of open blue, deep-lighted, and a broad glance.

* Maid is pronounced myde ; bay, bj/e ; play, plye ; neighbor, nye-

bor, &c.

Let the ' Chaucer Society ' mark tliis lastingness.

THE NEW PRIEST.

A sudden mermaif'. could hardly be more strange.
Our lone pastor c^M his eyes over the landscape.

The summer weather as, at its best, it is there, was
beautiful. The eye did not seek shade, as in other
countries ; and it seemed almost as if the air were so
bright that shadows did not fall. The waves came
slowly breaking on the beach, or in great cool dashes
against the rocks. One little clump of trees, spruces
and firs, tame captives from the woods, stood on the ris-
ing ground, not far away. Ilocks showed themselves on
every side, breaking out through the soil, sometimes as
ridges, sometimes in single masses ; and beyond the low
woods which could be seen a mile or two inland, great,
bald, rounded, strange-looking heads of mountain-rocks.

" Yes, we've got our rough beauties, 1 suppose," said the
Parson ; " a good ocean, and a pretty show of rocks."

" Some handsome rocks, indeed," said the stranger ;
" those over on the other side of the Bay, for example,
with their strong red, and green, and white, as if all the
colors of grass, and leaves, and flowers, had been laid on
a huge stone pallet, before painting the earth with them."

" Not many have ever been laid upon the land," said
the Parson ; " they all stayed upon the pallet ; and an
Indian tradition was, that Newfoundland was the heap
of rubbish that the Great Maker threw into the sea,
after He'd finished the neighboring continent."

" And yet," said the stranger, warmly, " Cormac, the
first white man that ever crossed the Island, brings word
that there's a great rich country there, like other great
countries! — But — for beauty — sea and rock, alone,
make plenty; give woods, besides, and sunshine, and
shade, and passing clouds, and twilight, and night, and
it's inexhaustible. — Then, too, if you look along such

A RARE INTRUDER.

cliffa (as on the other shore) you know that many a little
bay turns in and is lost behind the great wall ; and that
there (you'll excuse my Virgil)

• Omnis ab jilto
Frangitur, Inquc sinus scindit scse unda rcductos.' *

Does n't the very heart yearn after them, as if it miglit
find sweet peace in those far still retreats ? "

A glow came with a part of this speech, and a slight
melancholy touched the last sentence.

After a short pause, our parson said : —

"You've a better eye than mine. I go up hill and
down, into the coves and across the water, without
thinking much more of sea and rock than as places for
catching or drying cod."

" I don't think that," said the other. " Who can look at
those mountains yonder coolly, knowing that one can float
over their likes, at Wadham Islands, standing up thou-
sands of feet in water, as these in air, and gaze down their
dreadful sides, just as one can stare up at these. They'll
be coming long distances, yet, to see Newfoundland ! "

" Why ! you know the country ! " said the Parson.
" May ' say that at first I took you for a stray Church
clergyman, and wondered how you got by my house ? "

" No, I'm not," said the stranger, embarrassed ; " but
I ought to know the country ; I grew up in it."

" Pray excuse me ! " said our pastor. " Black cassocks
are fewer here than * white coats,' f and I jump at one."

"/ought to apologize for looking so," the other said.
" I aw a parson of my own sort. — May I walk with
you ? I'm for the Backside, wherever it is."

"I know every track," said the Peterport parson,
" and will make you free of all for your company."

* Every wave from the deep Is broken, and fritters itself into far
inlets. t Young seals.

' I I

TIIK M:W I'UIKST.

Tliifj hearty 8|)otM'li tho 8lran^'t;r mot lu'artily.

♦Slust now," lio isui«l prosciitly, "a |>laiil«'r inturostcd
ixui ^roatly. Ho really lias a most toiicliiiig way of tell-
iii<; u i^tory, aii«l draws a ntoral woinleriully.*'

*' Yos," said tlu! lislu'rmairs pastor, " (It'or^^ii Harbury."
Tlic strani^(!r, with surprising interest, vvtuiL on: —

" II(! WHS ;jfivin,'jj nie an at^coinit of \\h\ wreck of ono
James Knierson, wliieli yon. very liki'Iy, know all about:
(I can't tell it as he told it me, hut) 'the man was ;j;oin;^
to run his boat into a passaj^je iutween a reef and the
shore, where nothin<j; could save him scarcely from de-
struction ; all his worldly wealth was in her, and his son;
the people on land shouted and shrieked to him through
the gale, that he'd he lost (and he kmnv the danger lis
well as they did) ; suddeidy he changed his mind and
went about, just grazing upon the very edg(; of ruin, and
got safe otf ; — then, when all \vas plain sailing, ran his
boat upon a rock, made Ji total wreck of her and all that
was in her, and he and his son wei'e bai'ely rescued and
brought lO life.' After telling that, with the simi)lest
touches of language, he gave me his moral, in this
way : ' 'Ee see, sir, 'e tempted God, agoun out o' the
plain, right w'y ; an' so, when 'e'd agot back to the
w'y, agen, an' thowt 'twas all easy, then God let un go
down, and brought un up again, athout e'er a thing
belonginff to un but *e's life and 'e's son's.' — That moral
was wonderfully drawn ! "

While he was speaking and Mr. Wellon listening, they
had stopped in their walk. As they moved on again,
the latter said : —

" Ay, the people all count him more than a common
man. He's poor, now, and hasn't schooner or bout, and
yet everybody gives him bis title, ' Skipper George,' aa
they would the king."

A RARK INTUIJOKR.

Tlis companion spoko M^uin, rarnostly : —

" Few uum woiiM liiivc druwii tliiit luonil, tlioiij;li all
its wisdom is only scciii"; simply; in(l«'«'(l, most men
wouM nnvrr liavo drawn any; bnL nndonI»l('<IIy, Skippor
(ieor^e's interpretation is the trne one, ' (iod let him ifo
down,' and not for comin^jr Itaek, but for liavinjx irone
astray. — //<' sttred /it's life. It was not easy to draw that
moral : it would have l»een er.sy to say tin; man mi^lit
better have k(!pt on, while he was about it."

"Yes," said Mr. Wcdion, "that repentance, comin;;
a(^ross, would throw common min<ls oil' the scent; George
liarbury isn't so easily turned asid«'."

The stran<j:er continued, with the same earnestness as
before, as if full of deep, stron;' thought: —

" It was the Fatk of the; old Drama ; and he follow(,'d
it as nnerringly as tin; Greek tragedist. It needs a clear
eye to see how it conies continually into our lives."

" Skipper G(!org(! would never think of any Fate but the
Will of God," said his pastor, a little drily, on his behalf.

" I mean no other," said his companion. " The Fate of
the Tragedists — socn and interpreted by a Christian — is
Ski[)p{!r George's moral. There might have been a more
tragical illustration ; but the rule of inter[)retation is the
same. Emerson's wreck was a s})ecial providence ; but
who will try to wrench apart the link of iron that this
downright reasoner has welded between it and the wilful-
ness that went before? The ex[)erience of paganism and
the Revelation of God speak to the same purpose. Horace's

* Raro antecedentcm scelestum, Deseruit — Poena,'*
and the Psalmist's words (in the English translation),
^ Evil shall hunt the wicked person, to overthrow him,*

* IIoK. O. III. 2. Karcly has Penalty [with limping foot] let off
the guilty one alieatl.

r?f

1 11
h !!

I'll

THE NEW PRIEST.

come very near together. To see the illustration clearly,
in a special case ; to assign the consequence, as in this
case, to its true antecedent — not the near, but the remote
— is rare wisdom ! "

" Oh ! yes," said Mr. Wellon, " only I keep to the old
terms : ' providence,' ' special providence,' * visitation,'
and so on. It's good that Skipper George isn't a man to
be jealous of, or your admiration might move me."

The stranger smiled. As there was often to be noticed
in his voice something like an habitual sadness, and as
there lay sadness, or something very like it, in his eye, so
his smile was not quite without it.

Not answering, unless by the smile, he asked,

" Is his daughter like him ? "

" She's a marvel ; only, one who knows her does not
marvel : every thing seems natural and easy to her. I
ought to inquire whether you've any designs upon the
family ? "

" Not of proselyting. Oh ! no : none of any sort what-
ever. I had heard of them from one who did not like
them, and now I'm correcting the impression."

As they passed the church, in their walk, the stranger-
clergyman bestowed upon it a sufficient degree of polite
attention to satisfy all reasonable requirements (for a
parson with his church is like a sailor with his ship) ;
and they went on, talking together.

Often, as the conversation grew animated, they stood
still, and sometimes were interrupted by a passing col-
loquy between the pastor and meiiibers of his flock.
They talked of many things and lands ; and the stranger's
language made the readiest and most fitting dress for his
thoughts. If he spoke of woods, — such as bristle this
land, or overhang the sultry tropics, — his wordf^ seemed

A RARE INTRUDER.

to rustle with leaves, or to smell of the freshness of the
forest, or to flicker in light, and fleck the earth with glow-
ing shade. The waves swelled and sparkled in his
speech, and there was such a wealth of illustration, that
the figures with which he set off what was thought and
spoken of seemed to light down in bright plumage to his
hand continually, as he wanted them. Imagination, which
is the power of embodying things of spirit, and spiritual-
izing and giving life to material things, he was full of.
The slight sadness, and a slight noNV-and-then withdrawal
of manner, implied that he was not altogether taken up
in what he spoke or heard.

They passed, without remembering, the first and chief
path leading to the Backside, and then, lower down, the
second ; and, when they recalled the oversight, Mr. Wel-
lon turned back with his companion and put him in the
best way, and they parted with mutual pleasant words.
Epictetus put himself forward for a share in this demon-
stration, and was caressed in turn.

" This old fellow is friendly," said his new acquaint-
ance ; " perhaps we shall know one another better, some
day."

TUE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER 11.

MRS. BARr£ AVD miss FANNY DARE.

)HE English priest, when alone, walked fast ;
but he hiid walked for half a mile down the
winding road before the fluttering garments of
the ladies were in siglit, as they lingered for the loiter-
ings of a little girl. He overtook them at a place where
the hill is high, at one side of the way, and goes down,
on the other, steep and broken, to the water; and where,
at every turn, there is a new and pretty outlook upon the
harbor, or the bay, or the picturesque coves along the
road.

Mrs. Barre first heard his footsteps, and turned round
with a nervous haste. Sadness, and thought, and strength,
and womanly gentleness, mingled in her great dark eyes,
and pale face, and made her very striking and interesting
in appearance — an effect which was increased by her
more than common height. No one, almost, could look
once upon her, and be satisfied with looking once.

Miss Fanny Dare was both handsome and elegant —
rather paler than the standard of English beauty, but a
fit subject for one of those French ' Etudes a deux cray-
ons" if it could only have done justice to the life of her
fine features and glancing eye, and wavy chestnut hair.

Little Mary Barre, a sweet child, threw her arm, like

MRS. BARRE AND MISS FANNY DARE.

2;*;

a yoke, around the great dog's neck, where it was almost
hidden in the long black locks.

The pastor, like one used to feel with others, spoke to
the widowed Mrs. Barre softly and slowly, and mostly in the
Lord's own words, of her fair boy, lately dead, and of her
greater loss, not long ago, and of the hope that is in Christ.

Miss Dare led her two livelier companions on, leaving
our priest and Mrs. Barre to walk more slowly ; and
the gentle wind on shore, and the silent little waves in
the water, going the same way, seemed bearing them
company. The child's voice was the only sound that
went forth freely into the wide air.

As the two slower walkers came near. Miss Dare in-
vited them, by a single gesture, to look from the spot
where she had been standing.

The place was like a balcony ; in front one could see
down the shore of the harbor along the sea-face of Whit-
monday Hill, and over more than one little settlement ;
and out in the bay to Belle-Isle and the South Shore, and
down towards Cape St. Francis. It was to a nearer
prospect that she pointed.

"Isn't she a dear thing?" she asked, after allowing
them a moment to see the sight, which, as it has to do
with our story, our reader shall see, by-and-by.

" Lucy Barbury and little Janie ! " said their pastor,
looking genially down. " Yes ; if any thing can make
good Skipper George's loss, his daughter may." Mrs.
Barre moved a little further on, after looking down, and
stood apart.

" Don't let he" see us," said the young lady eagerly,
" or it will break up my scene ; but must n't we get the
school for her, and have her teaching, as she deserves ?
I want her off my hands, before she knows more than I

I i:

THE NEW PRIEST.

do. As for the schoolmaster and mistress, poor things, I
fancy they look upon her performances in learning much
as the hen did upon the duck's taking to the water, when
she was showing him how to walk."

" I should be very glad of it," said Mr. Wellon, " when
she's old enough."

" Ah ! Mr. "Wellon ; her head's old enough inside, if
not outside ; and what are you to do with her in two or
three years' waiting ? Besides, I want to see it, and I
probably shan't be here by that time." (A graver ex-
pression came near occupying her face at these words.
She kept it out, and went on speaking.) " You must put
the Smallgroves into the Newfoundland Society's school
at Indian Point, and we'll support our own here, and she
shall teach it." The worthy priest smiled.

" How would she take on the gravity and authority of
it ? " said he.

" Admirably ; I've seen her at it. I caught her, one
day, with her singing class, out behind the school-house,
on that stony ground ; about twenty children, of all
sizes, so big, and so big, and so big," (graduating, with
her hand, in the air,) " practising just like so many little
regimental drummer-boys, but all with their hands behind
them. Lucy's back was towards me, and of course the
scholars' faces ; and so forty eyes swung right round
towards me, and one little body wriggled, and an older
girl simpered, and Lucy knew that there must be a
looker-on ; br.t, like a little disciplinarian, she brought
them all straight with a motion or two of her hand, and
then turned round and blushed all over at my formidable
presence, as if it had been his Reverence, the Parson, or
her Majesty, the Queen."

" Well, we must see what we can do about it," said the

MRS. BARRE AND MISS FANNY DARE.

Parson, looking down again over the cliff. " And what'a
this about young Urston ? "

"And what makes you think of young Urston, just
now, Mr. Wellon ? " asked Miss Dare, reflecting, archly,
the smile with which the good man had uttered his ques-
tion. Then, without waiting for an answer, she con-
tinued : —

" I believe the Romish priests, at Bay-Harbor, have a
fancy that Lucy is our sly Church-emissary, assailing
popery in one of its weak points, — the heart of the
young candidate for their priesthood. — I don't speak
by authority," she added, " I don't think it ever came
into her head."

"Assailmg Popery, in his person ? — Nor I ! " answered
the Parson sententiously, and with his cane unsettling a
small stone, which rattled down the precipice and took
a new place on a patch of green earth below. Little
Mary was cautioning her four-footed friend not to fall over
the cliffs and kill himself, because he pricked up his ears
and watched the falling stone to the bottom.

" No ; nor assailing James Urston ; " said Miss Dare,
smiling again ; taking, at the same time, the child's hand
into her own. The parson also smiled, as he answered : —

" "Well, if it hasn't come into her head, it's one thing,
certainly ; — though the head is not the only womanly or-
gan that plots, I believe. — But seriously, I hope that girl's
happiness will never be involved with any of them ; very
seldom any good comes of it."

" You put him quite out of the case, as if it were not
possible that his happiness could be involved, or as if it
were not worth considering. He's said to be a fine young
fellow," said the young lady.

" But, as you said, he's not only a Roman Catholic, but
a candidate for that priesthood."

THE NEW PRIEST.

" No ! I'm told the complaint is, that he's given up all
thoughts of tlie pnestliood."

" That leaves him a Roman Catholic," then said her
pastor, like a mathematician.

"And a Roman Catholic can be converted," rejoined
Miss Dare.

" In a case of that sort it must be made sure, before-
hand ; — if there is any such case," — he answered.

A sigh or motion of Mrs. Barre, drew their attention
to her. She was still standing apart, as if to give free-
dom to the conversation, in which she took no share ; but
she looked much agitated. — Miss Dare proposed to her
that they should go home ; but she declined. Her friend
turned to a new subject.

" Have you heard of the American that intends setting
himself up in Peterport?" she asked.

" No, I haven't ; " answered Mr. Wellon, again looking
down from his height, and busy with his cane : " in what
capacity ? "

" Oh ! in a multifarious character, — chiefly as a trader,
I think, but with a magic lantern, or some such thing, in
reserve, to turn lecturer with, on occasion."

" No ; I hadn't heard of him ; but I'm not sure that I
haven't escorted in another new-comer that bodes less
good. You know we're to have a Romish priest here ;
I've just walked down with a clergyman of some sort,
and very likely, the very man. He isn't altogether like
it ; but I can't think what else he is. He reminded me,
too, of some one ; I can't think whom."

" What sort of person is he, Mr. Wellon ? I never saw
one of bis kind," said Miss Dare.

" Very handsome ; very elegant ; very interesting : with
one of the most wonderful tongues I ever heard. — I shall

MRS. BARRfe AND MISS FANNY DARE.

have to look to my flock : — especially those members of it
that feel a friendly interest in Roman Catholics : Eh,
Miss Fanny ? "

"Yes, it is he!" said Mrs. Barre; — "that is Father
Debree."

She was apparently endeavouring to keep down a very
strong excitement.

Her two companions turned in surprise ; Fanny Dare's
lips being just on the point of speaking.

" Why ! Do you know him ? " asked the clergyman.

" Yes ; *' she said. — She was very much agitated. Be-
fore either of her companions spoke, she added, " We're
nearly related ; but religion has separated us."

The Parson and Miss Dare may, in their minds, have
connected her own recent coming with that of the Romish
priest. — There was an embarrassed pause. Mrs. Barre
spoke again : —

" I must go home, I believe," she said, " I haven't
learned not to yield to my feelings, in spite of all my
schooling." She called her child to her, and hurriedly
took leave. Miss Dare did not stay.

The two ladies walked up the road, with litJe Mary ;
the child persuading her shaggy friend to go a few steps
in her company. Mr. Wellon continued his walk ; and
the dog, slipping his head out from under Mary's arm,
turned and trotted dignifiedly after his master.

' ii

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER m.

A PRETTY SCENE AND ITS BBEAKING-UP.

I HIS Whitmonday Hill, in Peterport, of which
mention was made in the last chapter, is, on its
travelled face, steep enough for a practised beast
(if there were such in Peterport) to slide down, and on the
water side, stands up three hundred feet and more of al-
most sheer precipice — gravel, and rock, and patches of
dry grass. On that side, at the bottom, it has an edging
of rounded detached rocks, with here and there among
them a bit of gravel that has fallen down and lodged.
This edging stretches along as debatable ground between
the hill and the sea, to Daughter's Dock, (the little cove
where a " Seventh Daughter " lives,) and, when the water
is high, is plashed and played with by the waves, as on this
summer's afternoon on which we bring the reader to it.

With a fine breeze in from the eastward, and the bright
sun shining from half way down the sky, the waters came
in glad crowds, up the harbor, and ran races along the
cliffs. Here and there a little in-coming sail was rising
and falling smoothly ind silently, as the loaded punt
floated before the winu.

The scene, to a sympathetic eye, was a pretty one of
home life ; but the prettiest part of it was on the water-
edge of Whitmonday Hill. At the upper end of it

A PRETTV SCENE AND ITS BREAKTNG-Ul'. 31

(speaking harbor-wise, and meaning towards the inner part
of the harbor) stood a little stage — u rude house I'or head-
ing and splitting and salting lish — whose open doorway
showed an inviting shade, of whieh the moral effect
was lnMghtened by the sylvan nature of the house itself,
made up as it was of boughs of fir, though withered and
red. A fisherman and his wife had just taken in the
catch of fish from a punt at the stage's ladder, and a
})retty girl, of some seventeen years, was towing the un-
loaded boat along beside the hill, by a rope laid over her
shoulder, while a little thing of four or five years old, on
board, was tugging with an oar at the stern, to keep the
boat's head otf shore.

Tiie older girl was one wliose beauty is not of any
classic kind, and yet is beauty, being of a young life,
healtliy and strong, but quiet and deep, to which features
and form give thorough expression and obedience. She
had a swelling, springy shape, dark, glancing eyes,
cheeks glowing with quick blood, (the figure and glance
and glowing cheek all at their best with exercise,) while
masses of jetty hair were lifted and let fall by the wind
from below the cap, which she wore like all girls in her
country. Her dress was different from the common only
in the tastefulness that belongs to such a person, and had
now a grace more than ever, as it waved and fluttered in
the wind and partook of the life of the wearer. She
wore a frock of dark blue, caught up a little in front, and
showing a white woollen petticoat ; a kerchief of pretty
colors was tied very becomingly over her bosom, and a
bright red ribbon along the front of her cap lay among
her black hair. Her shoes and stockings were rolled up
in her apron, while her blue-veined feet — not large nor
small, but smooth and well-shaped — clung to the uneven

i !'!:! '

ill'

TIIK NKW I'KIKST.

RurfjicoH ot" \hr. rocks, hihI straiixMi upon tlicin, us sli<*
walked aij^jiinst llu< wiiul and spranij; iVoiii one, rock lo
aiiolhcr; aiul i\uy (lippc<l now aixl liicii in tli(3 water, as
tlie lilll<» waves splaslu'd up. Over all, both Iium; and
li^nre. was a fj;rac(^ of innocent, ino(lest maidenhood.

Notliinfj; could ho |>r«'llier or more pictures(pm than
this little jj^roup. The elder «;irl, who drajj:ij;ed the boat,
skirted the ediie of the water with tlu! lijihlntsss of one
of those little beach birds, that, with a shadow and a rv-
llection in the moist sand running; alon^ bivside it, alter-
nately Ibllows and relrejits from the retreatinjj; and
advr,!U'ing waves; and the. little navi<;ator, towards whom
her sister continually turned, had her plump little lej^s, in
their wrinkled yarn stockin<^s, and her well-shod I'eet set
apart to keep her balance, while her head was ti|j;htly
covered in a white cap, and a kerchief with u silk frinjjfo
wont round her neck and down the back of her serge
gown, so that one could not but smiU». at hvv and \wr
work. At intervals she i>rattle(l, and for longer intervuls
she worked with all earnest gravity in silence.

There was another beauty about these girls to those
who knew them, as will ai>pear in its time.

Sphish ! went the water against the bow, spattering
every thing, and among other thuigs, the little white-
capped head and silk kerchief and serge gown of the
sculler at the stern. Anon a wave came up from be-
neath the keel, and, thrusting a sudden shoulder under
the blade of her oar, would lift it up out of tlio scull-hole
in spite of her, and be off. Then she would grasp her
weapon womanfuUy, and get it under her arm, and lay it
laboriously into its place again. In England one may
see the father's horse going to stable with a young child
on its back and another walking beside. Here they were

4 ■ 'i

A VUV.

ITY SCKNK AND

UUKAKINO

-UP.

tukii

ir t1l<

)iiiiil to :i Hww^ ])]:

ICC,

wliriT hll(!

WJIH

Il2llll<

■(I Up

lor

llic iii;j!;lit.

"I'lill! I'lill!
For 11 mniil ciip-rii

Out of tlio ^jiviit (

lOcp 8PII, Oh! "

cried the nijudrii in ji mellow, niiisica! voitrc, (cvidcnliy
lor tli(^ lilllc one, lor slu*. Iierself liiul her own fhoii;^hts,
IK) (lonht ;) sukI hs the ^reat (lee|> sen illiislrjited the son;^,
practically, tlm latter repeated, laii;j;hiii;^, (with a HoiiKi-
what staid and moderate merriment,) and in the broken
speech of a child, workin;^ very hard,

" Oh! wliiit a p)()(l ciii)-!"!!!!
Out of 'ii g'oiil dt'op wt'uo! "

and she was very near losing her oar a;^ain.

As th(!y ("anu; on in this way, the (^Ider sister helping
and sharino; tin; child's laborious frolic, and at th(3 monntnt
looking; back, a dark, win;j;(!d thin<jj Hew across the path.

"•Oh! my s'awl, Jjucy!" exclaimed the little one in a
hopcilciss voi('(!, but tu;jj<^in;^, n(!V(!rth(d(;ss, at her oar,
while she looked up sadly to where tlio black kerchief
with the silk fringe whi(!h she chiinuid as a shawl had
been whirled by the wind, arul had cau<5ht and fastened
upon the j)rickly leaves of a juniper bush, that alone of
all trees occupied the steep.

My pooty s'awl you gave me ! " she cried again,
working harder than ever at the oar.

" I'm sorry, Janie," said her sister ; " we'll get it again,
I think ; " but as they looked up, the liill was a sheer steep,
and the gi-avel very loose.

Poor little Janie, with her distracted thoughts, and
without the draught of the rope, which Lucy held slack-

((

(1 - ^

TIIIC Ni:\v rUIKST.

enofl as slic. I'm^^civd ovor the inisliup, could not keep tlie
bout oir, and it oanie asliore. The older sif^ter cumo up
to cr/inlort her.

'' Janlo, shall I shove you out ajjain ? " she asked, " or
nliall I jump in and scull you round ? "

licfore the little j^irl could answer, the scene which
they had had so much to themselves was broken hi u[)on.

" Look out, man ! " was shouted in a sharp, (juick tone
from above.

"Why, James!" exclaimed Lucy, lookin;^ up the
loo<e-gravelled precipice. There stood, at the moment,
far up, a young man poised u|)on it, while an older one
leaned over the upper edge. Tlu; loose gravel came rat-
tling down to the j)athvvay of rocks over which the maiden
had been walking.

"Jump wide, if you must ! " the man at the top called
out again, in the clear, quick way of men accustomed to
shipboard work.

In an instant the elder sister shoved the boat forth
toward the clear water, and sprang into it, leaving Janie's
oar, which had floated away ; got the other into the scull-
hole, and worked the punt out from the shore.

The waves came playing, up to the rocks that edged
the precipice's foot, w^aiting for the young man who had
no Avay to go but downward ; and who, though we have
been long, had not been able to stand still an instant.

Down he came, like an avalanche ; the cheaty gravel
giving way from his feet ; all the on-lookers breathless,
above and below ; the cold waves frolicking on the sur-
face of the deep sea ; — but the young man did not give
himself up to the usual fortune of heroines or heroes.

With a strong will he conquered what could almost be
called a fall, (so steep was the precipice down which he

A I'KKTTY SCENE AND ITS HUEARrxr.-Iir. i]^

(•Htnc,) and coritrolh.'d it as it' he had hwn wiiij^cd. II«
wf'iit down aslant, tiio gravel rattling «lown at iwvry
slight touch of his ibot on tin; face of the steep, atid ere
one coidd tell how, he was three iunidred yanls away, at
the edge of the water on the little h(;ach heyond the great
hill. Before he reached the nx^ks at tlx; further end he
had checked himself, and not even the shallow waters on
the sand had so nuieh as touched his i\'iit.

" Well done ! " said the man — a tisherman very shah-
hily dressed — who was still standing at the lop against the
sky. He saw the danger at an end, and then, turning,
went away. Now, therefore, the scene without th<i dan-
ger liad only beauty in it. Tiie, waves ran away from
the wind, s[)arkling in the sinilight ; a little sail was flit-
ting over the farther water ; and the maiden, whoso
' glancing eye had followed the young man's giddy run,
had a new color in her cheek. She had waited among
the crowd of mischievous waves at a few i'athoms' length
from the shore, and now that it was clear that he needed
no help, she turned again her little vessel toward the
land. Midway to the rocks floated a straw h;it, half-sunk,
which th(; wind had snatched from the young man's head
as he came down, and thrown there.

" Min'ter's dog ! " cried little .Tanie, attracted now by the
approach of the great black fellow panting over the wave-
tops, his long black hair floating wide. The young man
who had just taken the wondrous flight had now seated
himself, flushed and panting, on one of the rocks. As
the dog neared the hat, Lucjy was too quick for him, and
drew it, drip[)ing, into the boat.

" I'll leave the oar for him," she said ; and the brave
brute, having turned up a kindly face to her, made for the
floating oar, and, seizing it by the ha-ul-part, bore up

?"ff

lir

THE NEW PRIEST.

with it against both wind and tide toward the little beach.
That was tlie place, also, of the punt's destination, toward
which it was now urged gracefully by the maiden who
stood sideways in it, as men stand at sculling, and looked
forward with bright eye and lips apart and flowing hair.

A company of neighbors had gathered hastily at the
beach, four or five in number, and near them stood the
pastor ; and in all faces were excitement and curiosity.
Before her boat touched the sand, Lucy seated herself
upon a thwart and modestly put on her shoes. The per-
former of the late feat still sat apart, getting his breath

agam.

" I don't see the man that staid at the top of the hill,"
said the clergyman.

"'Twas VViilum Ladford, sir; 'e 've gone away, see-
munly. 'Ee know 'e's very quite, and keeps to 'isself,
mostly," answered one of the women who were eagerly
waiting for the explanation of the strange things that
they had just seen.

" Did 'e push un off, do 'ee think, Prude ? " inquired
one of the most eager.

'• Oh, no ! what would 'e push un for ? Will Ladford's
too sober for pl'y, an 'e's too paceable for mischief."

The short colloquy was deserted hurriedly, as the boat
came sliding up the beach, and its fa'r sailor leaped
blushing from its gunwale to the sand. Lucy, first curt-
seying to the pastor, was bearing the trophy rescued
from the water, to its owner, when little Janie was in-
stantly beset by two or three of the most enthusiastic
inquirers after truth, who questioned her, half aside, and
half with a view to being overheard.

"Where did Mr. Ur.ston come from, Janie?" — "What
was 'e doun there, fust goun off? " — " Wiiat made un go

A PRETTi' SCENE AND ITS BREAKING-UP.

down ? " were the assaults of three several female mmds
at the subject. Little Janie was bewildered.

" He couldn't keep his footing," said Lucy, hearing
and answering, although she had no more niformation
than the questioners might have had ; — a circumstance
that perhaps did not occur to her.

"The road's wide enough to walk on, athout aturabUn
over, is n' 'e ? " said one of the questioners, in a kind of
side-speculation, with a good-natured laugh and pleasant
voice.

" But I don't think he tumbled over the top," ventured
Lucy, again, who saw the absurdity of his not being able
to keep his footing on a highway whose width reached
the stately dimension of ten (at least, eight) feet, statute
measure, and kindly wished to protect his reputation from
a charge of such preposterous clumsiness.

The questioner had been longer in the world than our
yoimg maiden , and she advanced with i^er next question,
in this way : —

" Oh ! 'e was n' walkin on the road, was 'e ? but pleas-
urin' down t e side ; " and she looked up the great outline
of the hill, as loose and gravelly as a freshly-made glacis,
but steeper than a Dutch roof. The allusion threw the
company of women (who followed, at the same time, the
direction of her eyes) into a sudden laugh ; Lucy, also,
laughed innocently, and looked abashed , and Mr. Wellon,
who had not yet resumed his walk, smiled with them.

This last effect of her wit was not unobserved by the
speaker, who turned again to her charge, with new spirit,
addressing the neighbor-women : —

" What do 'ee think 'e sid,* to make un be in such a
tarrible hurry io git down ? Do 'ee think, mubbe, it was

* saw.

TIIK NEW PlillvST.

; I

a fish e sid ? Could n' 'avc abin he know'd e'er a bod^'
was a w;dkiin down on t/ie rocks ? "

But hkc tlic mouse who gnawed the toils in which tiie
lion was inclosed, an unexpected deliverer came to Lucy's
aid, just as, in pretty confusion, and blushing, she had
turned to busy herself about her little sister, away from
the embarrassment of this unexpected and hitherto unde-
tected attack. Urston was just coming toward her from
his resting-place upon the rock ; but it was little Janie
that brought the rescue.

*' I think," said she, very gravely and sententiously,
" 'e wanteil to g(.'t my s'awl."

" You funny little maid ! " cried her elder sister, laughing.

" And'e failed down;" continued the little explorer of
causes, to make her statement of the case complete.

•'Janie's handkerchief blew up against the little tree
on the hillside, and held fast," explained Lucy to the
women, who had interrupted their raillery, and with their
eyes sought further explanation ; — " and so she thinks he
was trying to get it," she continued, turning on him, as
he came up, a look the brighter and prettier for her con-
fusion, and with a tone as if she were near thinking that
Janie's was the true explanation.

Urston did not look hke a fisherman, though he wore
the blue jacket and trowsers ; and his eye had evidently
been familiar with otler things beside:^ the way of the
wind on the water, aid the " lay " of the rocky land. At
the moment, he still showed in his face the excitement of
his late adventure, and breathed hard from the struggle
by which he had conquered.

" Thank you," said he, looking as well as speaking,
while he took his hat from the fair hand that bore it.
" It wasn't my fault if I didn't get a good ducking, myself."

A PRETTY SCKNK AND ITS 1]RKAKING-Ul'. 09

" Why, you came down with a swoop, like a sea-gull ! "
said Mr. VVellon, who was not far oiY; " how you ever
managed to give yourself that turn in to the beach, I don't
know. — Your crown ought to be made of something better
than sti'aw, for a feat like that."

" I suppose it's something, when you've made a blunder
to get the better of it," said th j young man, modestly.

" That's the way the best part of us is brought out,
often," answered the Parson, drawing a moral, as men of
his cloth will ; " but if you always mjuiage to tumble
down as strongly and siifely as you did just now, you can
take good care of yourself in the world."

The maiden's bashful eye and cheek and mouth bright-
ened and quickened, with a sweet unconsciousness, at
this compliment ; but there were other interested persons,
who did not forget themselves.

'' Did 'ee get my s'awl ? " inquired little Janie, as the
Parson walked away, to the road.

The young man smiled, and, putting his hand into his
jacket-pocket, drew ibrth and spread before their eyes
the missing treasure, and then returned it to its owner.
She took it with joy (and, no doubt, thankfulness) ;
but her countenance fell, as she remarked that " it was all
full of prickles ! "

Some one of the women made (in an undertone,
whicJi could be heard at some distance) her comment,
thus : —

" It's my thought ef Janie had n' 'ad a sister, 'e wouldn'
ha' doned it."

At or about the utterance of this speech, Lucy with-
drew, with Janie, along the path which she had been
traversing a short time before.

At the same instant, the dog, having brought his charge

i 'i

■ >

THE NEW PRIEST.

safe to land and carried it np lii;i;li and dry upon tlie
bcadi, and loft it there, came back to perform his toilet
where he could have the society and receive the con-
gratulations of his friends. He took his position near the
last speaker, and, with special precision, spattered her all
over, from head to foot. Those in her neighborhood did
not quite escape ; and the gathering dispersed, with good-
natured and rather noisy precipitation.

Epictetus, for his part, went oft", also, in search of the
good man, his master.

While Urston busied himself with the boat, two women,
walking away more deliberately than the rest, said, one
to another:

'* Ef 'e wants to go a-courtun e'(!r a maid in Peterport,
'e miglit jes so well look a' to'ther side o' the house, to my
thinkin'."

" Ay, as come after Skipper Georgie's da'ghter," said
her neighbor.

Young Urston's case was this : his father, born and
bred a gentleman, (as was said, and as seemed entirely
likely,) had, as others like him have done, come, young,
to Newfoundland, and become a planter. He had mar-
ried a pretty woman, half-sister of Skipper George's wife,
but owing to dift'erence of religion, (the Urstons being
Roman Catholics,) the two families had had little inter-
course.

The boy grew with finer instincts and quicker faculties
than common ; taking, it seemed, from both parents ; for
the mother, also, was not only a fair Irishwoman, but one
of feeling and spirit. She died early ; and, while she was
dying, commended the fostering of 'her child to an attached
servant ; and tlie two parents devoted him, if he lived, to
the priesthood.

A ruETTY s(;kne and its lUiKA king-up.

o woraen.

So, at llu; n^c; of twelve or tliirteen years, Father
0"lV)ole had taken him into his own house, made liim at
first an ahar-hoy, taught him as well as he could, and
loved him ahundantly. He had no diUleulty in keeping
the boy's mind up to his diMuands ; but alter some time,
(it must be owned,) it would have; nMpiired an effort
which Fatlun* Terence would not make, to kee|) it down
to his limits; for the boy was a very active fellow, in
mind and body ; and when he had gone through all his
spiritual and religious exercises, and when he had wrought
out all the work that his director could put before him, must,
of course, do something. By way of vent, the good father
connived at his reading any solid-looking books which he
could borrow from friendly gentlemen in Bay-IIarbor
(and the youth did not fancy any thing light(U' than his-
tory) ; Father Terence, also, did not ti'ouble himself
about his pupil s slipping off*, in a blue jacket, to go out
upon the water: — an indtdgence understood to be an occa-
sional relaxation for the mind.

His own father refreshed the learning of other years,
for his son's sake, and taught him as he had opportunity.
At seventeen years of age, the young candidate was to
have gone to France and Rome, to finish his preparation ;
but he was now a year and a half beyond that nge ; for,
just as he came to it, a new priest, whose learning and
abilities were very highly spoken of, replaced the assist-
ant in the Mission at Bay-Harbor, and, getting a good
many things into his hands, got this young man away
from Father Terence, under rule, with hard penances.
Suddenly, Father Nicholas went up to St. Johns ; was
away, from month to month, for many months ; — and, at
last, young Urston withdrew, and said " he should stay
away."

.^- jL

THE l^EVV PKIEST.

CHAPTER IV.

A WALK AND THE END OP IT.

^^^T was a delightful day, soon after, when Miss Dare,
who was as much with Mrs. Bane as at her Aunt's,
Mrs. AVoi'ner's, where she was living, persuaded her
friend to a walk ; and, once out, they kept on, without
turning or flagging, beyond sweep of road, hill, cove, pass
in the rocks, the whole length of the harbor, to Mad
Cove.

The two ladies did not talk much as they went, but
they talked pleasantly, and what they said was chiefly of
the beauty of the different views, w^hich Fanny pointed
out, on land and water, — and there are very many to be
seen by an open eye, in walking down that harbor road.

The nearest house to the top of the slope in Mad Cove,
was that of Widow Freney, a Roman Catholic, and one
of Mrs. Barre's pensioners ; the next — a hovel at a little
distance — was that of a man w^ith the aristocratic name
of Somerset, who was, in American phrase, the most
" shiftless " fellow in the harbor.

The ladies knocked at Mrs. Freney's door, and the door
swung open at tlie first touch.

The widow, however, seemed surprised at seeing them,
and confused. The place had been tidied up ; the cliil-
dren washed and brushed ; and Mrs. Freney wore the
best dress that had been given her, and a ceremonious

A WALK AND THE END OF IT.

face. She asked the ladies to be seated, less urgently
and profusely than her wont was, and answered with some
embarrassment. One of her children was sick. — The
ladies did not stay.

" Oh, mother ! " exclaimed a child, who had opened
the door to let them pass, " he's here ! the Praest's here ! "

Miss Dare was passing out, when, as the boy had just
announced, a gentleman was on the point of entering.
Seeing her, he silently lifted his hat and drew back.

When Mrs. Barre came, he started in extreme astonish-
ment, and was greatly — even violently — agitated. In a few
moments, he so far recollected himself as to withdraw his
astonished and agitated gaze from her, and turned away.

Mrs. Barre's look was full of the intensest feeling.
Miss Dare watched the sudden and most unlooked-tbr
scene in surprised and agitated silence ; Mrs. Freney and
her family in wondering bewilderment.

Mrs. Barre spoke to the priest ; her voice was broken,
and tender, and moving.

" Shall I not have a word or look of recognition ? " she
said.

He turned about, and with a look of sad doubt, asked,
gently, but very earnestly, " Are you a Catholic ? "

She answered instantly, " Yes ! as I always was, and
never really ceased to be for a moment."

Perhaps Miss Dare started, but a glance at him would
have assured her that he was not satisfied. The doubt
in his look had not grown less ; the sadness kept its place.

" No more ? " he asked again ; " not what I believed
when we took leave of one another? Not what you
were in Lisbon ? "

Mrs. Barre, with a woman's confidence and directness,
turned to what must have been a common memory be-
tween them : —

1fC

THE NEW PRIEST.

" No more than what I was when I was a happy wife
in Jamaica, and had a true and noble husband and two
blessed children ! No more, and the same ! "

She did not weep, though she spoke with intense feel-
ing. He seemed to feel almost more strongly. He put
his hand upon his forehead, pressing both brows. Neither
seemed to regard the presence of witnesses ; yet when
Miss Dare moved, as if to withdraw, the priest hastily
begged her not to go away ; and then to Mrs. Barre,
who stood looking fixedly upon him. he said sadly: —

" How can I, then, but ^ay fareioell ? "

" How can you not hear, when I come asking ? **

" No," he answered, " I follow plain duty ; and not un-
feelingly, but most feelingly, must say farewell ! " and he
turned and walked away from the house, toward one of the
knolls of rock and earth.

" Then I must wait ! " she sjiid, turning her look up
toward the sky, which did not hide or change its face.
Then Mrs. Barre's strength seemed giving way.

" Come back into the house and sit a moment," said
Miss Dare, who had her arm about her; "and Mrs.
Freney, will you get a little water, please ? "

Mrs. Barre, though unable to speak, mutely resisted the
invitation to go back into the house, but persisted in go-
ing, with tottering steps, up the hill toward the path, and
still kept on, though almost sinking, for some rods farther,
— until she had got within the pass through the rocks, —
there she sank upon a stone.

" Thank you. Don't be afraid for me," she gasped ;
" I never faint." Then resting her elbows on her knees,
she covered her face with her hands, and so sat. " Oh !
Fanny," she said, " you saw that he was one very near to
rae, though so utterly separated ! "

A WALK AND THE END OF IT.

At the sound of a hasty step approacliing, she started
ami looked forth. It was IMrs. Freney with a mug of
water.

" Here's some drink he bid me bring 'ee ma'am," she
said, courtesying ; " an' sure I'm very proud to bring it to
such a kind lady as y* are."

Mrs. Barre thanked her, but declined the water ; and
the woman, expressing a hope •' that she wouldn't be the
worse of her walk," offered to procure a punt that
she might be rowed back, " if slie'd plase to let her
get it." This offer, like the other, was declined, with
thanks.

The ladies walked back more silently tiian they had
come, and more slowly, Mrs. Barre resting more than
once by tlie way, and looking hurriedly backward, often.
At home she threw herself down, and lay long with her
face buried. At length she rose, and wiping away lier
tears, said : —

" Ah Fanny, it isn't right that a bright, young spirit
like yours should have so much to do with sorrow. Your
day is not come yet."

" You don't know that," said her friend, smiling, and
then turning away. " Perhaps that was the very thing
that brought me to you."

Mrs. Barre drew her to herself and kissed her. The
tears were falling down Fanny's cheeks this time.

A sweet breath of summer air came through the open
window.

" You brave, dear girl ! " said the widowed lady, kiss-
ing her again.

" Never mind," said Fanny, shaking the tears away ;
" but will you let me be wise — though I haven't had
much to do with Roman Catholics — and ask you not to ex-

tt ,.■,{,

I! ! .

'1!

! >»!■ I

4fi

THE NKW rniEST.

pose yourself to this Romish priest, even if he's your own
brother ! Let him go, won't you ? You eaii't do liim
any good, and he won't do you any."

" Nothing can make me a Roman Catholic ! " said
Mrs. Barre, "and I can't help having to do with him.
I wouldn't for all this world lose my chance ! "

" Ah ! but we think our own case diiferent from
others," said INIiss Dare.

" If you knew what was past, Fanny, you'd trust me
for what's to come, under God. If I come to too deep
water, be sure I'U ask Mr. Welion."

A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO LIVES.

roi\r own
do him

;!" saia
r'lih hini.

nt from

trust me
too deep

CHAPTER V.

A. JEW MOMENTS OF TWO YOUNG PEOPLE'S LIVES.

I WO or three days passed before our young people,
who separated at Whitmonday Hill, met again.
The night had been rainy ; but the morning
was delightful. An occasional cloud floated, like a hulk
from last night's battle, across the sky ; but the blue, where
it appeared, was of the very bluest ; and the air fittest for
breathing and being glad in. The high, rocky walls of
coast, the ridges and the far-oflP woods, were as fresh and
clear as could be ; the earth was cool and strong under
foot, and one might feel the wish-wash of the water where
he could not hear it.

Skipper George had part of his old father's garden, on
the slope below the ridgy boundary of the little plain
on which his own house stood, and Skipper George's
daughter, like other maidens of the land, was early busy
i^ it, full of the morning freshness and beauty of the day.
A step drew near, and James Urston, coming to the fence,
wished her " good morning," and lifted his hat, gracefully,
as if he had had his schoc ing somewhere abroad.

" Oh, James ! " said she looking up, with her face all
glowing, "you hurt yourself the other day!"

" No. I've got over it before this ; it was nothing."
His face, too, had its fresh touch of brightness and spirit
from the morning.

\Vi\

.t lii

r, i!

'. t

'i;

THE NKVV PRIEST.

"It miujlit Imvc been something, thouj;li. You sliouldn't
have run the I'isk for sucli a trifle."

" Th(M'<» was no risk ; and if tliere had been, it wasn't
for Htth^ Janie only tiiat I got tiie ' shawl.'"

Lucy's brigiit eyes perhaps looked brighter. "Are you
going out on the water to-day?" she asked, changing the
subject.

" Yes, To-day, and To-morrow, and To-morrow, I sup-
pose ; but I ho[)e, not always ! "

" Would you go to Bay- Harbor again ? "

" Never on the old errand, Lucy ; I can liave a place
in Worner, Grose & Co.'s house ; I think Miss Dare
must have spoken about it."

" Did you know," said Lucy, drawhig nearer to the
fence, and bashfully hesitating, " that she had spoken to
the Parson about making me mistress in a school?"
The maiden blushed, as she spoke, and very prettily.

"And he will ; won't he ? " said Urston, interestedly,
but rather gravely.

" Oh ! I don't know ; be told me that he might be able
to soon ; but I don't think there's any place for me,"
she answered, busying herself with the garden.

" Yes ; and more than that, by and by ! " said he, decid-
edly. — A nice ear could have detected a little sadness
in the tone with which he said these words of happy
augury.

She looked hastily up.

"And some of these days you^ll be a merchant ! " she
said.

" Something, please God ; something, Lucy, that wants
mind in it, I hope, and that one can put some heart in,
too ; something that will give one chances to think, and
learn, after having once begun as I have."

A FEW MOMENTS OF TWO LIVKS.

nht be able

"Oil, you'll go on learning, I'm sure," she said; "you
know so inncb, and you're so fond of it."

The morning was IVesli and clear, the water bright and
living.

" You think a good deal of my knowing a little Latin ;
but only think of what other people know ! — this very
Father Nieholas at liay-llarbor. Yua know ten times
as nmeh that's worth knowing as I do!"

" Oh ! no," said the maiden, " it wasn't the Latin,
only-"

" I know the ' Hours,' as they call them," he said,
smiling, " and some of the ' Lives of Saints.' "

" Oh, no ! all those books that the lawyer lent you."

" If it hadn't been for those, I should have been worse
yet; — Father Terence hadn't many; — yes, I've read
enough to want to know more; — but the pleasant(;st
reading I ever had was reading your English Bible with
you those two times."

"Was it, really?" the maiden asked, with a glad look,
in her simplicity, and then she blushed a little.

" Yes ; I've got every word of what we read, as if it
were written in my mind deeper than ever those North-
men cut their words in the rock."

She was silent a moment, looking beautifully thought-
ful out into the air ; but then suddenly recalled herself,
and said, —

" But they cut their words deeply, to stand till now,
ages after, with the sun shining on them, and the storm
beating against them, and the ice freezing over them,
year after year, — if they are there, as people say."

"There arc writings in the rock ; but I don't know if
tliere are any of the Northmen's. It doesn't matter
much ; no one sees or cares for them."

I'l

i;'!ii:

!|!

THE NEW PRIEST.

" Men oiiglitii't to forget them ! " she .suld, with ghHten-
ing eyes.

" Poor men ! " said Urston, in his turn, " they lioped
for sometluiig hettcr ! IJwt hopes arc Iiappy things whiUi
we have them, and disappointed hope doesn't hurt dead
men. It's the hving that feeh"

The young man said this as if he had begun a man*{^
life, sueh as it is, most often. Perhaps he thought only
of one disappointment, that at Hay-Ilarhor.

Luey was busy again with the garden.

By and by she asked, " What do you think they
wrote?"

" Perhaps only their names ; perhaps the names of
some other people that they eared lor at home ; and the
time when they came."

" There may be grave-stones as old," Luey said, " but
tliis seems stranger, cut by strange men on a great cliff
over the sea ; — 1 should like to look for it."

" You know they say it's somewhere on the face of
INIad-IIead," * said Urston ; then looking towards the
ridge, he said, " Here comes my father !" and wished her
hastily " Good-bye ! "

* So it is believed, in Peterport, of a certain cliff; and, very likely,
ill other places, of other rocks.

."»'iL

A WUITTEN KOCK, AND SOMETHING MOHE. .01

CHAPTER VI.

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND OOMETIIING MORE.

|R. SMALLGllOVE, not jealous, had invited
Skipper George's daughter to come in, as often
as siie pleased, to the school ; and generally con-
trived to make this something more than a compliment,
by getting her occupied, when she came, with teaching the
more advanced scholars, while Mrs. Smallgrove taught
the younger, and he, with calm authority, presided.

This day Lucy IJarbury had sought the scholastic hall,
and there Miss Dare called for her, just as school hours
were over.

The haunts of childhood have an attractiveness of their
own about them, for those that were children once, and Miss
Dare, as Lucy came bashfully out, pointed, with a silent
smile, to the stain made upon the door-post by little hands
holding against it while little feet were lifted to the height
of the threshold ; and read, with a smile, a legend traced
with tar upon a bit of board which letmed against the
school-house. It was a timely moral for the young vota-
ries of science, indicted by one of themselves, inspired : —

" Yo that wool larn,
Don fall Estarn."

"I'm going down to make some drawings," she said,
'' would you like to go. Miss Lucy Barbury ? "

i !

pll!i

1:!

I'll

THE NEW PRIEST.

'' Yes, if you please, IMiss Dni-e ; if you'd like me to.
Arc you going to Mad Cove ? "

" No ; 1 wasn't going to Mad Cove, but I will go, if
you'd like it."

" I think that Avriting must be so strange, that tliey
sav the Norlhrnen left on ti»e Head ages ago."

" But wliy, out of all the ages, is it so interesting to-
day?"

" I only heard to-day where it was. Do you think it
is their writing, Miss Dare ? "

" So it's thought ; but it isn't always easy to make sure
of sucli things. I saw an account of a stone dug up, the
other day, in tlie United States sonievvhere ; and an In-
dian scliolar said that the letters were hieroglyphics, and
meant that ' seven sons of the Black Cloud made three
hundred of the W^'olfs cubs to fall like leaves of the
forest ; ' and a great Oriental scholar read it, ' Here the
Brothers of the Pilgrim rested by the graves of the
dead ; ' and he said it was a trace of the lost tribes of
Ismel ; but a scholar in the Scandinavian langujiges, of
Sweden and D(3iunai'k, said it was a relic of the North-
men, "\\ho went from those countri(>s and discovered
North America ; and that it meant, ' In the rolling
fields we make our home that used to have a home
on the rolling waves.' And there it is, you see. This
writing on our rock is also said to be by those North-
men."

"And it may be by Captain Cook, who set up the
stones at Sandy-Harbor," said Lucy, smiling.

" Yes ; it may be," said Miss Dare, assenting to the
possibility suggested.

" But it may be by those men," said Lucy again, return-
ing to the other possibility.

A WPJTTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 53

like me to.

"Certainly," answered I\Iiss Dare, assenting again;
" and it may he by the Lost Tribes."

Lucy kindled as if* a spirit of the old time came over
her. Ilcr eyes swelled and brightened, and she grew
pale.

" If it were, they ought not to leave it hanging out
there over the sea; but I suppose they'd be afraid to
move it,'' said she. "And if it were those Northern men
had written there, I should almost be afraid to look at it
so long after they were gone ; it would be almost as if
they had come back again to do it ; but they did some-
times write simple little things like a man's name, didn't
they, Miss Dare?"

" That's bvioii a trick of the whole race of men in all
ages; writing their own names and other people's," said
Miss Dare, " on walls, and trees, and rocks."

It took them a good half-hour — though they walked
well — to get to the mysterious rock, over Whitmonday
Hill and by Frank's Cove and lesser neighborhoods ; but
pleasant talking about many a pleasant thing, and frequent
greetings to the neighbors, as they passed, perhaps made
the time short.

By and by they stood on Mad-Head ; the fresh wind
blowing in from the bay ; the great waves rushing up
and falling back far down below them ; the boundless
ocean opening forth, beyond Bacaloue Island ; this cruel
sea close at hand being of the same nature as that with-
out, only a little tamed. They both stood, at first, without
speaking. At length Miss Dare recalled the object of
their visit, and said, —

" Now, Lucy, use your eyes, please ; and see which is
this famous stone. 1 am rather impatient now we're so
near it."

N \i.:i

THE NEW PRIEST.

Ilil

'!:! i

' I

Lucy, too, was quite excited.

" This is the very rock, I think," said she ; and she
threw herself upon the ground, and holding by an up-
standing point of the rock, and by its edge, leaned over,
bodily, and looked down the hollowing face of the huge
cliff. Steady as a girl of her life was, in eye and hand,
she did this with the same composure with which she
would have leaned over her father's fence. Miss Dare
threw back her bonnet and let the wind do what it would
with her hair, while she got down upon her knees and
looked over also.

These two pairs of bright eyes had looked some time
when they began to make out something like letters on the
great grained and wrinkled and riven surface, and about
an arm's length down, and yet so hidden by the over'
browing of the rock, as not to be seen without stretching
far over. Fearlessly, and full of interest, they leaned
over in turn ; each, also, In turn, holding the other.

" If it should be Greek or Hebrew, it will be too much
for me : Roman, or old English, or German Text, I fancy
we may make out," said Miss Dare. " Stay ! I was reading
upsidedown, like those inscriptions in the Desert. — I'll
begin at my end ; " — and she began drawing. " That looks
as if it would come out like the old Black Letter, or
German Text."

" James Urston might have read it if he'd only looked ;
he writes German Text beautifully, and knows all kinds
of writing I suppose," said Lucy.

" Perhaps James Urston never heard of it," suggested
Miss Dare.

" Oh ! I forgot ! he told me where they said it was, but
I don't think he had seen it," said Lucy.

" Ah ? — Well," Miss Dare continued, keeping to her

itiil

A WRITTEN ROCK, AND SOMETHING MORE.

work, " if we turn that upside down it looks like * IL/
certainly; doesn't it? We must allow a little for the
difficulty of cutting, and a little for difference of writing,
and a little for age. Why, if it all goes as well as this,
we shall make a noise with it in the world. Now you get
the next, please ; — very likely a date ! " added Miss Dare,
in line spirits. " There must have been a letter before it,
bat there's no trace of one now."

" Here are two out here bv themselves, Miss Dare ! "
said Lucy, who had been looking over at another place,
while the drawing was made, and who was excited with
her discovery. " They're very plain : ' I-V.' "

" What can that be ? " said Miss Dare. " Four ? Four
what ? ' I-V.' it certainly is," she said, after taking her
turn in looking over. " Well, we can't make any thing
more of it just now. There are n: other letters anywhere
along. Let us go back to our first work."

The next letter they pronounced " U," after getting its
likeness on the paper.

" That's no date," said Miss Dare again : '" 11 ? ' "—

" ' 0,' " suggested Lucy Barbury ; " it may be a prayer."

" Well thought again ! So it may be ! Let's see, —
what's the next ? — ' r ! ' Good ! But stay : this'll take
down the age of our inscription, mightily, if we make that
English. That other letter 's ' U/ depend upon it. ' 2L-
U=C=' — some sort of Scandinavian name — and — ' J) ! '
' |]Lttt|).' That looks pretty well and sounds pretty well.
Why, that's a grand old Norse name ! ' Lury ! ' It sounds
like Ruric, the Russian conqueror, and 'fury,' and
' LURID.' That's an old Viking."

" How strange ! " said the pretty fisher's daughter,
thoughtfully, " that one name, of all, should be there ; and
just the name makes us think of a particular man, and

I i

IK'!
Ill'

M It

;

III: I

.1!'

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THE NEW PRIEST.

how he looked, and care something about him — doesn't it?
He was the commander, I suppose."

Miss Dare, full of eager discovery, was bending over,
in her turn. It was slow work, stretching over, looking
carefully, and copying a little at a time.

" We shall have more trouble about the next word,"
said she, " for that won't be a name ; tliey only had one
name in those days. It may be ' somebody's son,' though ;
yes, it may be a name."

" And, perhaps," said Lucy, smiling, (for they really
had but a mere thread of conjecture to walk upon, across
a boundless depth,) " perhaps this is no man's name. It
may mean something."

" We haven't got that third letter exactly, after all,"
said Miss Dare, comparing and correcting. " It's ' C,' not
' t*' It doesn't make a man's name now, certainly."

" There's a Saint Lucy in the Prayer-Book, I'm sur /'
said her namesake. " I suppose tliey landed on her day,
just as they did at St. John's, and St. George's, and St.
Mary's, and the rest."

" This is a Lucy that hasn't been canonized yet, for
there's nothing before her name ; and I've got a key to
the other, so that it doesn't give me as much trouble as I
expected. I believe it does ' mean something.' "

Lucy Barbury leaned over the rock again in silence,
but presently drew herself up as silently ; and as Miss
Dnre looked at her with a smile, she said, (and no pencil
could have given the prettiness of the blushing cheek, and
drooping lid, and head half held up,) —

" I'm sure I don't know what it is."

"But I do," said Miss Dare: "' JJ=:a=:t=:ftsU=r=S*'
That's more familiar than one of those hard old Norse
names, isn't it ? It seems to be a woman's name ; but it

A WUITTEN KOCK, AND SOMETHING MORE. 57

makijs you ' think of a particular man,' perhaps, as you
said, 'and how he looked, and care something about
him?'"

"Oh! Miss Dare," said Lucy, quite overcome with
confusion, " I didn't know it was there."

" Nor I ; but since it's there, somebody put it there ;
and somebody that understands German Text. But I
was only in fun, Lucy. Don't mind it. You didn't cut
it."

Lucy would not have minded it, perhaps, if she had cut
it herself

" I'm afraid somebody '11 see it," she said.

There was, indeed, more than one body (female — and,
indeed, an old man too, — ) hastily getting up along the
cliff's edge, looking over, all the way along. Few people
were in the Cove at the time, and the greater part of
the few had been busy; but still the long sitting, and
above all, the strange doings up at Mad-Head, had not
been unobserved, and at length it was impossible for the
beholders to keep away.

" I don't believe they'll see it," said Miss Dare, as they
came near, " and if they were to they wouldn't make much
out of it ; not many of the women understand German
Text. There are those Roman letters, beyond, that could
be made out more easily ; but there again, unless they
were pretty familiar with such things, they wouldn't be
the wiser."

" I wond(5r what they mean," said Lucy, who, after the
revelation of the Black Letter, might be glad of a safe
subject for speculation.

" I fancy that they might be interpreted by one who
' understands all kinds of writing,' " said Miss Dare, with
a smile, — but speaking so that the approaching neighbors

If /"'

11 '

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1 i :'U

1 1 'IM

! 1 li

1 ' ''
I Ml

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'1 ' !'
, 1 [1;
■ 1 Ml

'i I 1 1(

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THE NEW PRIEST.

should not hear, — "but I and J used to be the same letter
and so did V and U."

Lucy bluslied more deeply than ever at the intelligence
that lurked in tliis sentence.

" Oh ! don't tell them, Miss Dare, please," said she.

" Did 'ee loss any thing, Miss ? " said the foremost of the
advancing inquirers.

" Yes ; I'm afraid we've lost our time ; haven't we,
Lucy?'"

"I thought, mubb'e 'ee may h-^ve alossed something
down the rocks."

" No ; we were looking for the old writing, you know,
that they say is cut in. Lucy here, had read about such
things and she was very anxious to see one."

As Miss Dare said this, she looked gravely at her com-
panion, but tliat pretty maiden was, or seemed, altogether
taken up, with the tie of one of her shoes.

" Did 'ee find 'un," inquired another of the curious, as
all their eyes wandered from one explorer to the other.

" No ; we found some marks, but they don't look like
old letters. — How do the fish go to-day ? "

" They'm ruther sca'ce Miss, but the bait's plenty."

As Miss Dare and her scholar went home, they said
nothing more to each other of their discovery. The
neighbors, dispersing slowly, wondered " what made young
Lucy Barbury look so frustrated like," and concluded
that it war because of her not being " so sbirp about
they things as Miss Dare, and Low could shu ? "

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY. 59

CHAPTER VIL

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERT HEAVY.

ARLY next morning, whoever passed along that
part of the harbor, might have seen young Urs-
ton standing under the Cross-way-Flake, which
covers with thick shade a part of the road beyond Mar-
chants' Cove, and the approach to the old unpainted house,
in which, with his youngest son and family, lived the pa-
triarch of his name, old Isaac Barhury, and his old wife.

From where the young man stood, the fair blue heavens
without, seemcid like smooth walls rising about the earth,
over the top of which inclosure had now begun to pour,
and by and by would come in a flood, sweeping away the
airy walls, — the fresh and glorious day.

Steps drcAv near, on the top of the flake, and the
young man left his standing-place and went forth. It was
a handsome woman, of middle age, who stood above, with
some fish which she was preparing to spread, and whom
ho saluted respectfully, giving her the title of " Aunt."

She returned his salutation kindly, but distantly i and,
as he lingered still in silence, addressed him again, while
she continued her work.

She asked, " Have you given up being a priest, Mr.
Urston?"

" Yes ! " he answered, in a single word, looking before
liira, as it were along his coming life, like a quoit-caster,

9 i

"«

I :i

n II III

'I m

THK NEW PRIEST.

to see how far tlie uttered word would strike ; tlicn, tiirii'
ing to licr, and in u lower voice, }i(I(le<l, " I've left that,
once find foniver. — But why must 1 be so strange, that
you call me ' INIr. Urston ? ' "

She looked at him searchingly, without speaking, fie
kept his eyes fixed u|)on her, as if exju'ctiug her to say
more ; but as slu; turned to her work again in silence, he
said — " I'm a fisherman, just now ; I may be something
else, but it won't be a priest."

•' James Urston ! " she said, abruptly as before. "Do
you know you're trifiiiig with the very life?"

The young man started. " I don't understand," said
he ; " do you blame me for not being a priest ? "

No; I'm glad of it: but what is there between you
and my daughter Lucy ?"

The young heart, as if it had been touched in its pri-
vacy, threw a quick rush of blood up into James Urston'a
face. " Nothing," he answered, much hke a lover ; being
confused by her suddenness.

" There ought to be nothing, and nothing there must
be! — I've told her, and I tell you, Mr. James Urston,
you must not meet any more."

" But why ? " he asked, not I'ecovered from his confu-
sion.

" You can see, easily," said Mrs. Barbury. " I needn't
tell you why."

Is there any thing so hard, or that goes in so deep, as
air made into words ?

" No, I don't see," he said. " I see how different she
is from any one else."

How could he let himself see that wall, so suddenly
built up, but so surely ? — It was not, yesterday.

" I know she is," said the mother, " and I thank God

TRUE VVOIIDS AUE SUMKIIAIKS VKllV IIKAVY. Gl

for it ; lie mado her ho : but luiv fecliuj^s iwa like otlnfr
jR'ople's, only they may go dec^iJur. — Tlicy i. aii't be trilled
with."

"How could I trifle with her?" he asked, Avannly.
"Trifling i.s not ray character, — with man or woman ! "
Tiiere was a strength in this self-as>ertion, in which every
fi'ature took part with the voice, that nmst have impressed
Mrs. Barbnry.

" I believe you don't mean wrong," she said ; " and
that makes it easier to speak plain to you. I haven't
language like yours, but 1 can say the truth. I'm her
mother, and must answer to God for what care I take of
her. It would be wrong for me to hit you go on, and for
you to go on, against my forbidding."

The young man's face was flushed. Happily, no one
but Mrs. l>arl)ury was near; and hap[)ily, and rather
strangely, no one else was drawing near.

"If you forbid it, it's wrong; I don't know what else
should make it wrong," he said.

" Difference of religion, James Urston," she said, slowly
and gravely, — " as you must know yourself. I wouldn't
be unkind ; but it can't be helped." — It was plain that
she was thoroughly resolved.

He answered bitterly : —

" If you dont blame me for not being a priest, you'll
take good care that I never come any further. There
mightn't always be a difference of religion."

INIrs. Barbury looked steadily at him, and severely ;
she said : —

" I didn't think you'd given up being a priest for any
woman — "

Urston did not restrain himself, but broke in upon her
speech : —

THE NEW THIRST.

i»1

I';

'■■iM

"I never gave up the priesthood for any thing but con«
Beienee ! because I must be a hypocrite, if I kept on. 1
can't believe every tiling, like good old Father Terence ;

and I can't be a villain, like " (he did not give the

name.)

She answered : —

" You speak (piite another way, when you say that I
ought to risk my daughter for the chance of making you
a Protestant ! I've no right to sell my daughter's pduI ! "

Again the young man took fire. " We needn't speak
of trathcking in souls," he said, " I'm sure nothing would
buy her's, and I wouldn't sell mine, — even for Lucy Bar-
bury."

" Then do right ! " said the simple reasoner who was
talking with him. " You can't be any thing to each
other!"

Gentle as her face and voice were, the sentence was
not to be changed. It is not only in drowning, that the
whole life past, — ay, and the future's hope, — meet in an
instant's consciousness, as a drop reflects the firmament ;
ibr, in any crisis which has power to quicken every fac-
ulty to its utmost, all that is past comes with a sudder
sadness, and all that might have been ; while, at the same
pulse, comes the feeling, that, between past and future,
we are losing hold and slipping down, forever; quitting
the results of what is gone, and the opportunity of what
was to come. "Whoever has had the experience of love
discovered in his heart, only that it may be chased and
killed, may know what Urston felt.

" You can't help what she has been to me," he said,
sadly. " Y'^ou can't take away the memory, at least. You
can't take away noble thoughts she's given me. Y'"ou can
take away what might have been, yet," — he added, bit-

viin:

TRUK WOIinS ARE SOMFTIMKS VKRY MKAVY. CI]

r who was

(crly, as wt'll as sadly, "it's luinl for a young man to
Iiavt! to look back lor Ills lia[)[)ino>s, instead of forward I
I didn't think it was to ho my caso ! "

No man living, and certainly no woman, could help
jceling with him. IMrs. IJarhury and he were still alone
togctluu*. She spoke (and gently) : —

" Happiness isn't what we're to seek for ; but it comes
after doing what's right. — It isn't always easy to do right,"
she said.

" Not so easy as to tell others to do it," he answered,
bitterly, still.

" And yet, it is to be done ; and mnuy have done as
hard things," said INFrs. Barbury, "and even were the
better for it, afterwards."

" When it takes away the very best of life, at the
beginning" . The young man gave way to his feel-

•o

inirs for a moment, and his voice broke.

" We may live through it, and be the better for it," she
said.

" Take away the best of life, and what is left ? " he
asked, with his broken voice, which had been wSO strong
and manly only a little while before. " Or break the
heart, and what's the man, afterwards ? "

Mrs. Barbury's answer was ready, as if the question
had come to her years ago.

" A ' broken heart ' is the very thing that God asks
for ; and if it will do for Him, it may do for this ^v'orld,"
she said. " I know what a woman can do, James, when
she must, and I think a man should do as much."

" How do you know ? " he asked. " Not by your own
feeling ! "

" Yes, by my own feeling ! "

The young man looked up at the fair, kindly face,

fr;

iHM

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THE N^W TRIEST.

which, in familiarity with the free air, had given away
some of its softness, but had it's wide, clear eye un-
changed, and gentle mouth.

We, young, are often bewildered by a glimpse of the
unpublished history of some one of our elders : (for the
best of these are unwritten, and we sometimes catch a
glance at them.) — Ah ! covetousness, or low ambition, or
earnest drudgery, as well as hatred of mankind, or mad-
ness, or too early death, has taken many a one that led
another life, up to a certain time ; and then it was broken
olT!

So, too, a happy peacefulness and quiet strength have
taken place, like sunshine, and a new, green growth, in
many a heart where the fierce tempest had laid waste.
It may have been so with Skipper George's wife.

" Vou'd never know from the water, when it lays
smooth in the sun," she said, presently, " what storms it
had been in, outside. — I was as young as you or Lucy,
once."

She smiled, and it seemed almost as if her young self,
fair and happy, came, at a call, up within her, and looked
out at her eyes and glowed behind her cheek. Urston
could not help listening.

" I was brought up in England, you know, from a
child, in Mrs. Grose's fomily. I was a play-fellow with
the ch'ldren, and then maid. — One time, I found I was
GfoinGT to be wretched, if I didn't take care, for the sake
of one that M'^asn't for me ; and so I went into my room,
and didn't come the first time I was called ; but when I
did, I was as strong as I am now."

" You weren't in love ! " said Urston.

" I wasn't, afterwards : but I was much like you,
before — only, I wasn't a man."

i«

I Pi
,1'

TRUE WORDS ARE SOMETIMES VERY HEAVY.

She was as calm and strong in telling her little story,
as if it had not once touched her very life. So the boat
swims, full-sailed and fearless, over the rock, on which,
one day, at half-tide, it had struck.

" Not every one can go through, so easily," said the
young man, moodily.

" James Urston ! " said she, looking steadily in his face,
"you're a man, and women's feelings are not the easiest
to get over."

" Well, I can't stay here," said he, looking out sea-
ward, as so many young lovers have done, before and
since ; some of whom have gone forth wanderer;?, accord-
ing to their A'ord, and helped to fill the breath of the
Northeast Wind with this long wailing that we hear, and
some of whom have overcome or been overcome by hard
things at home.

" Take it manfully," said the woman, " and you'll con-
quer it."

He pi'essed his lips together, shook his head once, with
a gesture of anguish, and then, straightening himself and
throwing back his head, walked up the harbor.

** 35s ist cfnc elite <5escl)fcine,
ainU flcftt "Xkiits ©losses trabei ;
IDocl) iuem es eben pnssivet
I3em bvicljt tJas %]zx} eutjtDci." *

It's only an old, old story,

That there goes but little to make :

Yet to whomso it happens,

His heart in two must break.

So sings, most touchingly, the German poet, of love

* Jl^fnc.

i 1.1

(■I !'■

nil

! i

lil|
i!i|;

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ill

THE NEW PRIEST.

with cruel scorn tossed back. He sang out of a heart
that knew what was tlie dreadful crush, and dizzying, de-
stroying backset of the life's flood, when its so many chan-
nels, torn from their fastenings in another s being, lie
huddled upon themselves.

A little further up the road, there is on the left hand,
where the hill goes down — rocky, and soddy, and stony —
to the beach, a little stream, that loiters (as it leaves the
bosom of the earth and comes out into the air,) just long
enough to fill up a hollow with its clear, cool water,
and then goes gurgling on its short way to the salt sea.
There is no superstition in the regard the neighbors have
for this spring ; but everybody knows the place, and some
have tender memories connected with it, from gatherings
of lads and maids about it in the clear summer evenings.
Har-pool, (or Hare-pool,) they call it.

If James had thought of this association, (perhaps he
did,) it would have given another touch, still, to his sad-
ness, to remind liimself of it at the spot ; but he crossed
over, and went down to it, and, where the streamlet fell
out of its basin, caught the cool water in his hand, and
bathed his brow, and drank.

His side was toward the sun, that came along, as he
does, in his strong way, not hindered by our unreadiness.
The young man's shadow, long and large, was thrown
upon the hill-side. Another shadow joined it. He
turned hastily, and saw the old parisli-clerk, Mr. William-
son coming. He went out into the road ; met him, ex-
changing salutations ; passed under the Cross way-Flake,
and down the harbor.

.ill

ill

SKIPPER GEORGE.

CHAPTER VIIL

SKIPPER George's story.

I N the evening of that dny, which had b^Ben beautiful
to the end, Skipper George's daughter seemed more
full of life than ever. In the last hour of daylight
Bhe had given her lesson to her little sister, who was no
great proficient at learning, and who was, by degrees,
(like some other children, with other words,) getting broken
of making " c-o-d " spell " fish." She tripped across the
even ground in front of the house, to meet her father, with
a lighter step than usual, and was busier than ever within
doors. When supper was over, and after the three-
wicked lamp in the chimney was lighted, she read, out
of a book that Miss Dare had lent her, a story of an
ancient mariner, and his strange voyage ; while the mother
knitted a pair of woollen leggings for her husband, and the
stout fisher sat upriglit, with Janie on his knee, sometimes
looking at his daugliter as she read, and sometimes looking,
musingly, into the fire, where the round bake-pot stood,
covered with its blazing " splits," and tinkled quietly to
itself.

George Barbury was a large, strong-bodied man, more
than six feet in height, with a broad chest, and every way
a pattern of a stout, healthy fisherman. His rusty clothes,
— jacket, and ve.;t, and trowsers, — patched evenly and
cleanly at the knees and elbows, luid a manly look ; so

/-fill;

! i

111!

I ;!<:;::

THE NEW PRIEST.

had his shoes, with tlieir twine-tiea, and his strong, thick-
ribbed stockings, and thick woollen shirt, and plain black
'kerchief round his neck ; but, above all, that weather-
beaten face of his, with grizzled whiskers half-way down,
and the kind, simple eyes, that looked out over all at one,
and the bald head, with grizzled, curling locks, of those that
always look as if they never grew beyond a certnin length
and never needed cutting. All this great, massive head
and kindly face were open now, for, in deference to the
reading,* he sat uncovered. The little girl had listened,
at first, with great interest, to the wondrous rhyme, but
was soon asleep, with one arm stretched at length over
her father's, with the little, busy hand at rest, having
dropped the chip which, at first, had illustrated the story ;
one wing of her cap was pushed up from her chubby face,
and one stout little leg was thrust forth, so as to show a
shoe studded with nail-heads all around the sole.

The daughter, by natural gift of God and happy growth,
was, in some ways, a different being from her parents.
Much beauty of outward things, much beauty of inward
thoughts and an ideal world, — with its sky above, and
earth and boundless sea below, — which lies in the mind
of every speaking or mute poet, as the old Platonists sup-
posed it to lie in the divine mind ; — these things this girl
saw, and her parents saw not ; even her mother, only
partly. In the vision of these, the daughter w^as beyond
the one ; apart from the other. But "in how much more
had she deep sympatliy with them and kindred to them,
because she had lost nothing while she had gained so
much ! All human heartvS and minds that have not
quenched that 'ight of Christ " that lighteth every man
that Cometh into tlie world," can know and feel truth,

* Their readings iire generally from the Bible and Pruycr-book.

SKIPPER GEORGE.

lieartiness, manliness, womanliness, childlikeness, at sight,
much or a little ; and the con.scienco which Lucy brought
to judge of higlKT things and things farther, was the self-
same that the rest of them a])plied to lower and neai
things. Some sentences of false religion she quietly
ciianged in reading, and only si)oke of them when all was
done.

Tiie fisherman approved the painting of the icebergs,
and the bending over, and pitching and swaying of the
ship, and the shaking of the sails, and the dropping down

"Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below tlu ight-house top,"

and the mother approved the moral that bade us love all
things, both great and small, after that more than once
the tears had come to her eyes as she sat knitting ; and
Lucy's voice, as gentle and musical, and clear as the gur-
gle of a brook that the rain has filled, would sometimes
run fuller, and sometimes break, and sometimes cease to
be heard for a while, and she would sit and gaze at the
burning lamp or the fire, or up through the Avide chimney
at the starry sky ; and they all thought that the words
about the silent sea, and the wondrous harmonies made
by the blessed spirits through the sailors' bodies, were ex-
ceeding beautiful. And after it was done, the father and
mother, and the bright girl, — who had so many more, and
so much fairer, fancies than they, — all agreed in this judg-
ment : that no man had a right to bring false religion, or
a lie against the honor of God, into poetry, any more
tlian into the catechism.

" 'Tis n' right to put in about ' Mary, Queen,' and the
' Mother of Heaven,' — for I suppose 'e was a larn'd man
that could write what 'e woul', Lucy ? " srad the father, in
a tone of regret; " 'e should n' help the wrong, when

■'0

I; I

■

ill

i'llli"'
I

I
I

?|j||lii'i

■n

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!i!:iS

THE NEW PRIEST.

there's so many taken by it, and mubbe lost forever!
We got no right to ' make mention o' they nam^s within
our lips/ as the psahn says."

The mother spoke, perhaps not less sadly, but more
severely :

''Yes, child, it's just that part will do mischief;" — the
mother had been a Roman Catholic, it will be remem-
bered. " They can't go such a voyage, or see such sights,
but they can call her queen, and pray to her."

" Yes, indeed," said the bright-eyed daughter. " It's
all a wild thing, and one part no more true than another ;
but I think it might do mischief."

" And it's not well having much to do with Roman
Catholics — with the ways they have now," con turned
the mother, more pointedly ; while her 'laughter sat with
a gaze fixed upon her face, and dropped her eyes when
the mother looked up from her work.

" They'm not all bad," said Skipper George, " though
they're all wrong in religion surely. Thou wasn't very
bad. Mother," he continued, with a tender s./ille at his
wife, " when thou was one o' them ; though 'ee 're better
sunce, that's a sure case. I walked a good piece wi' a
pleasan'-lookin' gentleman, (much like a reverend gentle-
man 'e seemed,) an' so 'e said we musn' think they'm all
bad."

At him, again, the daughter looked with a long, fixed
gaze, holding her book upon her knees. Presently, the
fisherman got up, and, laying down his little load at length
upon the bench, went forth into the evening.

A full, round moon was shining in a sky so clear that
it seemed, really, as if space were empty. Half day it
was, and yet full night ; and as the fisher, crossing the
green before his house, mounted the ridge and leaned

SKIPPKR GEORGE.

1 Roman

:;ontiiiue(l

r sat with

yes when

" though

isn't very

lie at liis

're better

ece wi' a

id gentle-

icy'm all

)ng, fixed

ently, the

^:-

tit length

against a lone tree or mast that stood up from the earth
of a cleft in the rocks, tlie harbor- I'oad below him was
shown plainly, and the houses at its side, and in the cove
not i'ar off, stood plainly outlined, — larger and smaller,
dark and white, — some in their own inclosures, some as
if there were no land in any way belonging to them but
the public thoroughfare ; yet was there no sight or sound
of living thing, except the frequent bark of dogs, and the
innumerable waves, rising and falling everywhere, in their
most glorious cloth of silver, which they wear only at
such times.

As he stood silently, a man came near.

"A good evenun, sir ! I beg pardon for niakun so free
to hail'ee," said Skipper George, recogr»izing the gentleman
of wliom he had spoken a few moments before, and who,
turning aside, heartily gave back tlie fisher's greeting.

" You had the best lookout in the neighborhood," said
Mr. Debree, walking to the spot on w^hich Skipper George
had been before standing and looking abroad from it.
"This tree didn't grow here," said he, looking up at
the gray trunk glistening in the moonlight.

" No, sir ; 'twas set there," said the lisherman.

" Is it a landmark ? "

" 'Is, sir, it may be, in a manner ; but not for s'ilun on
tliose waters. 'Twas set there when riches was taken
aw'y. Riches came agen, but 'twas laved, for 'e'd larned
l)artly how to value riches."

The gentleman looked, as the moonlight showed, inter-
estedly at the speaker : " Another story with a lesson in
it ? " he said. " If it were not for keeping you out so late,
I would ask you to do me the favor of telling it."

" Ay, sir," said Skipper George. " I said there were
amanv lessons sent us. This one t^omed nearer to me

r
i! '

I :■;

■!!:■

li':

l!|

111 /'111'

■Hi

> 'i ;

'■^'A

TliH Ni:W PliiEST.

aj^aln than the tother. I hope I've larned somethun by
that story ! Fislierinen don't heed niglit liours much :
but it's late for you as well, sir. INItibbe 'ee'd plase to
walk inside a bit ? " he asked, with modest urgency.
" It's a short story, only a heavy one ! "

" Another time, perhaps," said the strange frenfloman ;
"not now, if you'll excuse me ; but if it wonlbi't be too
mnvb tr.:!;'.Ie I would thank you for it where we are.
On hoav ov another is much the same to me."

Ai *hc iiist words of this answer Skipper George
turned a look oi surprise at the stranger, and when tbe
latter had finished speaking asked,

" Be 'ee stayun herejibouts, then, sir ? "

Perhaps he may have thouglit it strange that one who
looked so like a clergyman should be staying for any
length of time in the neighborhood without being better
known.

" I am a clergyman," said the gentleman, frankly ;
" but not of your church ; and I don't feel free until I'm
better known."

Skipper George apparently weighed the answer. He
did not urge his invitation ; but his open face became
clear and kindly as ever.

" Then, sir," said he, " ef 'ee'd plase to be seated here,
I'd tell die story. I know it well."

Before besinninii; it the fisherman cast a look at his
house, and then gazed awhile upon the restless waves
which here glanced with the gleam of treacherous eyes,
and there were dark as death.

" Do 'ee mind about ten years ago, in Newfoundland,
sir?" began Skipper George, turning his steady eyes to
his hearer, .•.lud s})eaking as if the date or the years
since the date had 'been painful to him ; " the hard

SKIPPER GEORGE.

year that was when they hud the ' rails,' * they called
'em ? "

*' Yr=" ; though 1 was in England at the time, I know
protty well what htr^pened in Newfoundland. It was a
sad time."'

" Ay, sir, 'twas a sad time. Many people suffered :
SOT vj wanted food, and raore agen got broken in spirit,
(and that's bad for a man,) and some got lawless like.
'Twas a sad time, indeed ! " Skipper George, having
lingered thus before his tale, began it abruptly : " Well,
sir, 'twas on the sixteen day of January,— Thursday
'twas, — I was acomun down Backside froiii t • Cc'sh,
hauling a slide-load o' timber, an' my yrw.^'L^f ton wi'
nie. It had abeen a une day, first gou.. o'T, \for a win-
tor's day,) wi' just a flurry o' snow now rind agen, and a
deal o' snow on tha ground, tull about u ; lOon it begun
to blow from about west and by nothe, or thereaway,
heavy and thick, an' growun heavier an' heavier, an'
bitter cold. Oh ! 'twas bitter cold ! We did n' say much
lugether, George an' 1, but we got along so fiist as ever we
could. 'Twas about an hour or two before night, mubbe ;
and George says to me, ' Let's lave the slide, Father ! '
'Twas n' but we could ha' kep' o.i wi' it, though 'twas
tarrible cold, hard work ; but 'tv/as somethun else !

" So we turned the slide out o' the way and laved her,
and corned on. 'Twas blowun gales up over Backside ;
we could sca'ce keep our feet ; an' I hard somethun like a
voice — I suppose I was thinkun o' voices — an' I brought
right up into the wind. 'Twas just like beun at sea, in a
manner, and a craft drivin' right across our wake, an'
would ha' been out o' sight an' hearun in a minute. Then
I knowed by the sound 'twp^ the Minister — (we did n^

* (Kiillics V) riots in tho distress from the American and French v/ars.

i/iiilfiill'

,i'i

THE NEW PRIEST.

have e'er a reverend gentleman of our own in they days ;
but 'e lived over in Sjuuly lliirhor an<l 'e'd oo.^e to go all
round the Bay.) We could sca'ce bid(5 together, but I
was proper glad to meet un, (for a iniuister's a comfo. ^
'ee know, sir ;) an' 'e said, * Js any body out ? ' ' There's
two o' brother Izik's orphans, sir, I'm af'ejired, an* others
along wi' 'em,' I said. 80 'e said, ' God help them ! *
* Where are you?' two other boys, James and Maunsell ? '
' Along wi' brother Izik's two,' I said. 'Twas blowun
tarrible hard, and cold, and thick ; an' the Minister
turned wi' us, and we conied up, ploddun through the
driftun snow, and over the rudge. When we opened the
door, first the mother thought there was four of us ; and
so she said, ' James ! ' lor we was all snowed over ; but
she sid there was only three, and 'twas the Minister wi'
us two. So she begged his ])ardon, an' told un our poor
boys were out agunnun, an' she was an ole punt they had.
We were all standun (for we didn' think o' nawthin but
the boys) when two comed into the door all white wi*
snow. 'Twas n' they two, sir, but 'twas my nevy Jesse
an' another. ' Haven't they comed ? ' 'e said. ' Dear,
what's keepun they ? '

" Jesse had abin out, too, wi' Izik MafFen and Zippity
Marchant, an' they were all over to back-side o' Sandy
Harbor together ; on'y our poor young men were about
three parts of a mile further 'lown, mubbe. So, when it
comed on to blow, Jesse an' his crew made straight for
Back-Cove an' got in, though they were weak-handed,
for one had hurted his hand-wrist, — and so, in about
three hours, they got round by land, an' thought the
tother poor fellows would do so well. ' What can us do,
Uncle Georgie ? ' 'e said ; for he's a proper true-hearted
man, sir, an' 'e was a'inos' cryun. ' First, we can pray.

SKII'PKK GEORGi:,

said iltii Mi: inter ; an' so ho- said a prayer. T make no
doubt I was thiiikuii too niiicli over the; jmor yoinig fel-
low,-* ; and the wind made a tanihle great beMowing down
the ehiniley and all round the house, an' so 1 was ruther
aw'y from it more "an 1 ought. Then the iSlinister an'
Jesse an' I started out. My mistress didn' want me to
go ; but I eouldu' i)ide ; an' so, afore we'd made much
w'y u)) harbor agen the wind, an' growim dai'k, (though
twasn' snowui'.,) we met a man comun from tother side,
Abrnm Frank, an' 'e said last that was seen of our four
was, they were pullun in for llobbis's Hole, an' then
sometliun seemed to give way like, wi' one of 'em rowun,
an' then they gave over and put her aw'y before the
wind, an' so as long as they could see any thing of 'era,
one was standun up sculling astarn. (That was my
James, sir ! ")

A very long, gently-breathed sigh here made itself
heard in the deep hush, and as Mr. Dcbree turned he
saw the sweet face of Skijjpcr George's daughter turned
up to her ftxther, with tears swimming in both eyes and
glistening on her cheek. She had come up behind, and
now possessed herself quietly of her fiither's hand.

" So we turned back, an' the Minister wi' us, ('twas a
cruel night to be out in,) an' the wind a'mos' took an'
lifted us, an' sot us down by the foot o' the path over the
rudge ; but when *ve got atop here, and it corned athwart,
it brought us all down kneelun, an' we could sca'ce get
over to the door. Tiie poor mother got up from the
cliiraley-corner and came for'ard, but she needn' ask any
thin ; an' there was a pretty young thing by the fire
{this girl was a little thing, asleep, but there was a pretty
young thing there) that never got up nor looked round ;
'twas Milly Ressle, that was troth-plight to James. They

II I

ili^jiili^

TIIK NKW I'UIKST.

wjis to luivc been marriod in a week, cf the Lord willed .
and 'twas for 'e's jjousc we w(ire dniwiin out the timber.
She just rocked herself on the bench. — Shu's gone, long
enough ago, now, sir!

" So the ALinister took llu^ Hook, Jind read .'i bit. I
heard un, an' I didn' hear un ; I'or I was aw'y out ui)on
the stormy waters wi' the poor young men. Oh, what
a night it was ! it's no use ! blowun an' bellowun an'
freezun, an' ice all along shore to leeward !

" Well, then, sir, about two hours o' night, there comed
a lull, an' then there vva.> a |)ush or shak(i at the door, an'
another, — an' tuiother, — an' another, — (so it was, we all
thought,) and then the door banged open. There wasn'
a one of us but was standun u})on 'is feet, an' starun out
from the kitchun, wIkmi it opened. 'Twas nawthing but
cold blasts comed in, an' then a lull agen ft)r a second or
two. So I shut to the door ; an' the poor mother broke
out acryun, an' {)Oor Milly fell over, an' 8lii)i)ed right
down u[)on the hearthstone. We had a heavy time of it
that night, sir ; but wlien the door banged open that tiuK;,
thifj child that was a little thing then, lyun upon the
bench sleepun, made a soart of a gui'gle, like, when the
first sound comed to the door, and then when the flaws
o' wind comed in she smiled, and smiled agen, and
laughed, as ef a body ra'y be sayun pooty things to her
in d'y-time. Jesse sid it, an ;^!ucked me by the coat-
sleeve, and T sid it, too.

" Well, sir, night passed : 'ee may be sure we didn*
sleep much, on'y cat-naps ; and once or twice I failed
into a kind of a dwall,* an' started, thinkun the?/ was
speakun to me. Mornun corned slow and cold — colder
than night. So the nighbors comed in at mornun, and

* Doze.

sKiri'KR (iMounr:.

upon
wliiit

sat by ; and now an* agcn one 'onld s^ay tlioy were fine
youn;^ men ; an' utter a l>it aiiotlicr M say .lainos was a
bravo heart, and liow h(! saviid a boat's crew thre(; years
a;^o, senllun llieni info B'y-llarhor ; an' so tliey said how
ho be;jjiui to teach in Sunday-sehool Sunday hetbro ; an'
how bravo 'o was, when they sid tlio hist of un, seulhm
aw'y round tlie point and over the b'y, tor t'other sido,
or lor IJell-Isle, or soino phico to l«ieward. So tliey said
James *ould take 'oin sate, phisc; God, an' we'd hoar of
'em soin(i i)hieo over tlie b'y in a d'y or two. Tlion
thoy said they wondered of tlio youtij;^ men couhl keep
from froozun their iiandes, an' said niubljo tliey woul(hi'
j;it touciied, for thoy was all well-elothcd, an' .James 'onld
koo}) up their spirits, an' brother Izik's little Goorgo wa3
u merry boy, an' <;reat play-game tor the rest; an' my
Maunsoll an' 'o's tot her cousin, John, were steady young
men, an' wouldn' give up very easy ; but thoy were both
quiet, and looked up to James, though John was a good
bit older.

" WuU, sir, the day went on, cold, cold, an' blowun
heavy, an' the water black an' white, wi' white shores, an'
slob-ice all tdong ; — an' more, agon, an' heavier, to lee-
ward, sartenly. We could n' stir hand or loot that day,
nor next ; but the Lord's day came in softer, an' we got
a good crew an' a stout punt to sarch for the four
poor boys that bad been three days a missun, and old Mr.
Williamson, the clerk that is now, sir,* made a prayer
over us betbre we laved. When we come to j)ut off, they
left m'' standun ; I make no doubt but Jesse maned to
.^I)are nio ; but I called un back, for I said, why should I
be settun wi' my hands folded, or walking about, lookun
out over the water, and I may just so well be doun soipe"

* l*arisli-clcrk.

■'rw

■mfih

I f

THK NKW I'r?IKST

(hun liko si iallicr lor my sons an' for my broll'.or's or-
phans ?

"Wo made lor IJroad (^)V(» ; for so we IIioiiii;li( (lie
w'uul wonid lia'drixcM (lie poor yonnj:; IM lows a-Tlnirsday |
bill Ave conldn' i!;»'l into Broad Cove, lor lli<" slob an' caUrs

ofi

'rii(> shore lookccj larriidc cimioI !

Skipper (Jcoi'liic sale ihonj^hllnl a moment, and Iheri
beir^n au-'iin.

"Al Poi'l'^al Cove," ]i(> conlinued, looking o\-er llio
waler, "they did n' know abont e'er a pnni, an' no moi'is
ihey did n' at l»i'oad ('ove, nor Ilolly-Kood; for wo. staid
lhi-(M» days, an' walked an' sMrelie<! all ovei'. An' so a
Thni'sday moi-n airen we coined b;ick home; — 'Iwas cold,
bnf still. So when W(> coined round I'eterporl-Point,
(that's it over at the outside o' l>Ia/,nn I lend, yonder,)
oveiy man, a'mosl, looked over his shon!d(M', thinkun
mublx^ they'd ^ot in ; but 'twas n' so. They luid n' come,
nor tliev haibi' be(Mi hard from. So my mistress, an*
INIilly. an' (uM)rL;;(% an' 1, an' this mai<l knecded down after
I'd told '<Mn how 'twas, a.n' prayed to the pxMl Ivord.

"An' so we wailed, an' did n' hear Irom the four pooi
bovs, r.ot for a ^ood many days!"

Ski|>per (i(>orije sto|>ped her<^ aj^nin for a wdiile.
"Aw(dl, sir. then there conKMl word oxer, that

n had ai)in fonnd at Broad (^ove ! — It was n'

some
known

who thev W(>re ; but we knowed. So they ^ot Mr. AVor-
ner's boat, an' a crew of 'em went round, ati' Skipper
'Enery Kessle. an' Ski|>j)er I:^ik Ressle (that was INlilly's
father.) an' Skipper l/,ik ]M:irchnnt, ('e was n' Skij)j)er
then, however.) bnt a many friends goed in her, — 1 conld

n iio

that t

ime, sn',

" 'Twas about snn-ijoini-down, v^Vj comcd in. Nevtr a
word noi' a sound ! She looked oiack, sei munly ; an' no

4.U

SKIIM'KIl (iKOKOK.

colors nor fhii^. — 'Twus iUv.y ! Sure enou|^li, 'twas
tlicy !

"A iri.'Ui li;i(l sid ;i |)(iiit .'ill ("ovcrc*! vvi' ice, an' li.'iiil(:<l
licr ii|); Mil' wlicM Im', coinrd (o clear away llic ice, lli<',r<;
was a, iDan, Hccmiiiily, in llic liir'ard pai'l. ! !!<; called
llie iiiL;hl)ors ; an', sure eii(niL!;li, ',lier<; \\ was, an' uriotlior
'jiie, aloii^ji; wi' iin ; an' holli seeminily a-ktieelnn an' Icariun
over (lie for'ard lli'arl. 'I'licy were tlie two hrotlu-rH,
.loliii an' 111 lie (ieori^e, i'ro/eii si ill", an' I wo arms locked tx>-
f^ellier! TlK'y <rK'd |»r'yiin, sir, most, lik<dy ; so it. se(!irie(l.
Tliey was ^ood la<ls, sir, an' lli''y knowed tlieir Ood !

"So, then, tliey tlioiiirlit lliere was n' no m<»re "

The fislK'rmaii here made ii l<i'iL''er |iaii<e, ;ind ^etlinj^

Up f'r<»in his seat, said " I'll he hack, alter ji, hit. sir

aiK

walkiii;.^ away i'roin Mr. Dehnte, and his daiiLfhter, stood
for a little while with his hack toward them and his head

)are

le inai(

len )

»ei. 1,, ,• jT(»ii

tie i\

ice n})on her knee within

Imm' (wo hands. i !i<' moonlip^ht <!;losse,d her I'icli black

lair, *!:liiiiced from her white cap, and jjrave a jrracf! to
her bended neck. At the tirst, motion of her father to

(iini a

bout.

rose to her i'eet and awaited hi

)ori

on Ins

him too, — on his liea<l, bared of its hair, abov*;
broad, m inly front, find f)n his steady eye, — the moonligfit
lell beautifully. Mr. Debree rose, also, to waif for him.
Ski[)i)er G"orj;<! eame back and took up his broken

stoi

liumbye, sir, when they romed to (he afier-fiart of
the boat, there they found a youn^ man lyiin in the starn-
slieets, wi' no coat, an' his — an' his — his j)')or, lovun arm
under 'is brother's neek ; — an' the totlier ha.d the jacket
rolled rip (()r a j>illow under his head, an' I sup})Ose 'e
died there, sleepun upon the jack(;t, Ih-it 'is brother rolled
lip lor !iii."

THE NEW PRIEST.

The voice of the father was very tender and touchhig
but he did not give way to tears.

" So, sir, tliat young man had done 'is part, and sculled
'era safe right along wi' the tarrible cruel gale, aw'y over
a twenty miles or more, to a safe cove, an' his hand-
wristes were all worn aw'y wi' workun at the oar ; but 'e
never thought of a cruel gate of ice right afore the cove ;
an' so we made no doubt when 'e found that, in dark
night, and found 'e could n' get through, nor 'e could n'
walk over, then 'e gave hisself up to his God, an' laid
down, an' put his tii"ed arm round his brother ; an' so
there they were, sir, in short after that, (it couldn' ha'
been long,) there was four dead men in their boat,
awaitun, outside o' Broad Cove, tull some one 'ould come
an' take their poor bodies, an' strip aw'y the ice from 'em
an' put 'em in the ground, that comes more nat'rai, in

a manner, sn

. I

" — They did n' find e'er an oar, — whatever becomed
of 'em ; but they found their poor guns, an' the two or-
phans had their names cut 'John Barbury,' an' ' George
Barbury,' an' one of 'em had ' Pet — ' for Peterport, an'
couldn' cut no more, for cold — an' death.

" There was three guns cut ; an' one had ' James
Barb — ,' that poor Maunsell must ha' cut, poor fellovs'-,
afore the deadly cold killed un. So the kind people that
Ibund the poor boys, they thought James was a respectable
young man, an' when they coined to lay 'em out, in the
scliool-house, (they were pro[)er kind, sir,) they jiut u
rutile-shirt on him, o' linen.

" So, sir, the Minister corned over an' buried the dead.
Four cofiins were laid along the aisle, wi' a white sheet
over every one, because we had n' i)alls : James, an'
Maunsell, of George, an' John, an' little George, of Izik ;

ii^.

SKIPPER George.

f»S

lied

>ver

ind-

Lit'e

)vc;

dark

Ld n'

laid
n' so
i' lui'

boat,

come
n 'em
i-al, in

jcoraed
ko or-
eorge
|ort, an'

James

felloNs^

Iplo that

)ectablc

in the

put u

no dead.

lite sheet
iie:^, an'
of Izik;

an' wc put two brotliers in one grave, an' two brothers in
anotlier, side by side, an' covered them!

" Tiiere was two tliousand at the funeral ; an' when the
IMiuister couldu' help cryun, so I think a'most every one
eried, as ef 'twas their own ; an' so we hard that people
that lived on Kelley's Island hard singun goun by in the
(lark, like chantun we haves in church. They said 'twas
beautiful, eomun up an' dyun aw'y, an' so, goun aw'y
wi' the wind. It's very like, sir, as Paul an' Silas sang
in prison, so tliey sang in stor...

" Then Milly, poor thing, that never goed hack to 'er
father's house, took a cold at the funeral, seemunly, an'
siie died in James's bed a three weeks after ! Slie was
out of lu!r mind, too, i)oor tiling ! "

After another silence, in which Skipper George gazed
u})on the restless deep, he said,

" I bi'ought liome wi' me the best stick from the timber,
and laved the rest, an' no one ever touched it, an' there
it staid. So next winter, sir, my tother poor young man
died in tlie woods, o' masles ; ( — thank God ! we never
had to move in * till I lost my line boys.^ an' the next
sixteen day of January I set up my })illar, as Jacob set
his pillar, an' this is my pillar, sir. I said the Lord gived,
an' the Lord have tookt away ; blessed be the name of
the Lord. — All the riches I had I thouaht 'twas ";one."

" You said riches came again," said Mr. Debree, deeply
interested and atrected.

"Ay, sir. My maid is gone back to the house. I can'
tell 'ee what she is, sir. There's a plenty in the harbor
will speak o' Lucy Barbury, sir. I hope 'ee'll excuse me
tor keepin 'ee so late."

" I thank you, with all my lieart, for that beautiful

* hito tlie woods to be near fuel.

:**r«j

li. '

THE NE\V PRIEST.

i'li

'ill!

I .1
t i

story," said Mr. Debree, shaking the fishiirman's hand.
"Good night, Skipper George! You have learned a
lesson, indeed, and, with God's grace, it shall do me good.
It's a noble lesson ! "

" The Lord showed me where to find it in my Bible
an' my Pr'yer-book, sir. I wish 'ee a good evenun, sir."

So there was a histoi-ic beauty (to those who

knew them) about the girls in that house.

They were the only remaining children of George
Barbury. Skipper George, as he was called, though he
neither owned nor " saiKid " a schooner, had lost his
greatest wealth (as things go here) — three fine sons, — all
three in early manhocd ; two at one time, and afterward
his last. This was u great loss. It made the father
stronger in himself, standing alone and stretching upward ;
but it desolated this world very much for him. Those
sons would have enlai'ged his family ; with them and
theirs ho would one day have mjumed his schooner for
" the Larbadore." * He would have been another man at
the head of such a race.

They were all gone now ; and the fiither was, perhaps,
the better man for it : (a brave, good, kindly man he
was ;) and the people respected him, and they called him
" Skipper " as a token of respect.

One of these gii"ls remained, and one was given to him
after his loss ; and Luc}'^ had grown into a young woman ;
and in her case, most certainly, it was a good thing that
her father had made up his mind naver to set his heart
on any human thing. He had her with him often on the
water, and he was glad to watch her at her work at home
and hear her read ; yet steadily he threw her on herself
(in his homely wisdom,) to make a woman of her ; and

* LabriuliM".

SKIPPER GEORGE.

hand.

lied a

good.

Bible
1, sir."
e who

^eor^^e

h lie

jst his
IS, — all
erward

father
pward ;

Those
im and
)iier for

man at

perhaps,
man he
led him

to him
woman ;
that
is heart
n on the
at home

herself
cr ; and

himself looked out of his more lonely life, witli great
fatherly eyes U})on hci ; rcjoieiiif^ in her beauty and
goodness, and thouglitfiilness, and hojiing much fVoni lier ;
but counting her as not altogether belonging to himself.

She had her own end before her from her childhood,
which seemed to be to do her utmost work in tlie world ;
and, lirst, to fill her brothers' place. She did not ask or
talk ; but she took heed, and heard, and saw, and felt
and thus grew and learned. At ten years of age she first
made up her mind fhat she would never grow into a man,
and so fill up her father's loss. When some chance con-
versation first brought her to this point, (which, very
likely, she had feared before,) there was seen a flow and
ebb of blood ; and tears got as high as the level of her
lids ; and then, without asking or saying, she knew that it
was a w^oman's place she was to have. So in all girls'
ways she did her utmost, and into whatever she did or
learned, she threw herself with all her might.

Her motiier was a most sensible woman, with much the
same spirit as her husband's ; and >)eing yor. iger, by ten
years or so, than he, was, for that reason, more a com-
panion of her daughter. For other teaching than she got
at home and on the water, there w\t,s the s( lool which
IVIr. Wellon had succeeded in establishing, ■ lere Lucy
Barbury outlearned every thing ; and Mr. W on, finding
this quiet, pretty little girl so bright, taught h* :■ himself, in
some things, and lent her books. Miss Da: nade much
of her, too; talked with her, and listened U) her, and en-
couraged her, and read with her; and L icy grew aston-
ishingly in wisdom and even in wdiat is learned from
books.

This night, witJiin the house again, for a while, Lucy
Barbury sate looking, with absent eyes, at her father, who

■^ ri

' ' 'il.

Tin-: NEW PRIKST.

\]Vm

himself sato late ; tlien she trimmed the lamp, and busied
herself with piipcr and ptMicil.

It Avas all silent till their evenino; praycr-tinic ; then,
late as it wnf^, Lucy read the New Testament lesson f()r
the day; and the father used the eveninp^ collects of the
Coinm()n-i)raver-l)()()k, holdinsj: liltle Jjuiie aujain in his
arms; and then th(^ liltle gathering was broken u|).

It was the parents' way to leave their daughter to her
own times, and she trimmed her lam[) and sate in the
chinuu^y after they wei'e gone to bed.

The next morning they found her lying, in her clothes,
upon her bed, burning with fever.

Dr. Aylwin was sent for, from Brigus, and said that
" it was severe, and would not be over in a day — or two."

A MKETING.

8r>

;ied

CHAPTER IX.

A MEETING.

I AYS, fiiir and foul, went by ; the fever kept about
its slow work in Miirchants' Cove, and Skipper
Georpji^'s dauiihlcr was siek. There came a very
beautiful al'lcrnoon, on (he twelllli of lliat Aujj^ust. All
was i'air, ms if there were no provision in eitiier sea or
sky for rnin.

The wind from tlic sea was swe(;piiC' steadily over the
"cjould" buslies on the Baekside; i-\v /.y overhead was
clear, and if a cloud floated, it was above the wind ; and
there it saiUul slowly, as if it were a barge from which
some lovely spirits gazed upon the happy earth. The
little breakers played quietly, (at this distance no sound
comes up from them,) rejoicing, a[)parcntly, among them-
selves, as if they were, what they are often called, living
" white horses."

The wind took little notice o^ the childish trees that
lifted up their heads among the bushes, but scarcely yet
above them, and swept on toward the farther woods and
inner barrens, there to lay by what it was bringing of
health and freshness from the main.

The day was such as often draws one's longings for-
wards, forwards, as the sweet wind goes, and brings into
the mind a gentle sorrow, because it cannot go along
farther or faster than the heavy body.

-,i

THE iNEW TRIEST.

This neigliborhood lius seldom any stir of human life,
and birds and insects are not frequent here. The paths
are travelled most in winter ; I'or tliey lead over to the
woods, crossing some swamps and [)onds, porha[)s, in the
way ; and these are frozen at that season. They can be
traversed, however, (some of them,) at other times, by
those who are familiar with them, with no worse risk than
that of getting a wet loot at a careless moment, and they
are shorter ways of connnunication between the houses
on the harbor-road in Peterport and the next settlement,
towards Bay-Harbor, than the main highway.

Some simple flowers grow here among the stones and
shrubs, and berries in their season. The linmEa harealis
puts up its pretty pinkness, (coulbunded with the blossom
of the cranberry by the people ;) sj)iked willuw-weed ;
golden-rod ; the sweet flower of the bake-ai)ple, and other
pretty things grow quietly u])on this ground, which is
scarce habitable for man. The graceful maidenhair, with
its pretty, spicy fruit ; phunboys, bake-ap])les, crackers,
partridge-berries, horts, and others enrich the barrenness,
Hnd make it worth the while for women and children to
oome and gather them.

On this particular day, at this particular time, the
single figure of a gentleman in black dress was crossing
the surface of the shrubbery, just about midway between
the harbor's head and the outer point. He was walking
moderately, and any one, who saw him nearly, would
have seen his hands clasped before him, and a thoughtful,
serious look upon his face. Whoever knew him would
have known afar that it was the new Romish prie>t.

Just as he turned a short corner, where the growth of
little firs was rather thicker than elsewhere, there started
up at his step a pretty thing ; no bird, but a sweet little

A MEETING.

the

king

th of

arted

little

girl, with the flushed face of one who had been stooping
long, and the loose locks, that were a fairer covering for
the lovely head tlian the 8t raw-hat whieli Imng adowii
her shoulders. The little thing, before collecting her-
self, — before seeing fairly the person who had come so
suddeidy upon her, — sjiid in a startled way, " Who are
you ? "

After looking at hinj for a moment, however, she came
straight up to him, witli her eyes fixed on his face, and said,
" I've got a great many berries."

At the same time she held up, in a sweet way, still
looking straight upon his face, her apron, heavy with the
load tliat she had been gathering.

" Thank you, my little child ; I don't want any of
them," answered Mr. Debree, scarcely lieeding the child,
who was looking up so steadily upon him. Then, as the
little creature was about to turn away, rebuffed and dis-
tanced by his manner, he recalled himself from his ab-
stractedness, and, (;ondescending to her, asked,

" Do you wish me to take one of your berries ? "

" Yes, if you please, a great many. Were you looking
for me when you came here ? "

" No, my child," answered he again kindly, " I didn't
know that you were here."

" Oh ! yes. I've been here a great while ; I've been
here a great many hours ; I don't know how long I've
been here. Do you know my mamma ? "

^ No. I don't know your mamma," said he, patiently
keeping up the conversation with the talkative little thing,
whose voice was as pleasant as her look, and who evi-
dently wished to become better acquainterl.

" Does your mamma let you come and stay here so
long all alone ? " inquired he on his part.

THE NEW I'UIEST.

i r

" Wiiy, no ! I'm not Jilono. Don't you see ? " said the
young thing, with that directness and fatisfaction of hav-
ing the advantage of a "great man," whicli also grown-up
children sliow in the same way when they tind themselves
better informed in some particuUir than some otlier:^
are.

As she said these words, there rose from the near
bushes a merry laugh of little ones, wlio had been hearing
all, unseen, and had been, very likely, on the point of
bi-eaking out before.

" Don't you hear those children ? They are with me ;
and there's a woman over there, with a j)ink ribbon round
her neck, sitting by that rock ; don't you see her ? She'll
see that we don't get into any mischief."

Mr. Debree smiled as she reported so glibly these last
words, words whi(;h sounded as if they had made a part
or the whole of the request or injunction given when
the children set forth from home. In the direction to
which his eye turned, as she spoke, the woman " with the
pink ribbon," was plainly to be seen at no great dis-
tance.

These are tenacious little things these children ; and a
kindhearted man, though he be a childless Romish priest,
cannot rudely break away from one of them that wishes
to detain him. Father Ignatius, though a little reserved,
was very gentle in his manner, and his voice had no
repulsive tone in it ; the child seemed, as children do, to
draw towards him. She took his liand, although he had
several times turned to go on iiis way, and prepared to
lead him back again over his steps. He gently resisted.

" Where do you mean to lead me ? " he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, as if abashed, and then,
loosing her hold of his hand, and turning one little foot

A MKETINC.

hen,
foot

round upon it's toe, swayinp; her body, at the same time
a little Jiwiiy from iiim, asked timidly,

" Don't you want to go and see my mamma?**

"But 1 don't know your mannna, my cliild," he an-
swered, taking this oi)[)ortunity to effcot liis purpose of
keeping on his path ; so saying " flood bye ! " he walked
away, lie turned his head ere long, and saw the child
unsatisfied standing still upon the same spot ; her hands
holding u]) her loaded apron, \u;r head bent forwards, and
her eyes lixed upon him. He stooped hastily, and has-
tily came back, saying : " There's a pretty little flower
for you that I found under the fir-tree yonder."

" INIamma said I was a little flower that gi'ew in the
shade," said the child, and then, as if trying again to
establish an intercourse between herself and her chance-
companion, asked him suddenly,

"Are you a minister?"

"Yes. What made you think so?"

" Do you know Mr. Wellon ? " continued she in her
course of interrogation.

" Yes, I know him," he answered, once more turning
to be gone.

" Do you love Mr. Wellon ? " she went on, following
out her own little train of thought. "I know him, and
I love him very much ; do you ? " She put the second
interrogative at the end of the sentence, to compensate
for the diversion, in the middle clause, from the opening
question, as one bring- up, to its first level, a rope that
has sagged in its length midway.

" Yes," said he, as kindly and quietly as before, and
not persisting now in going on.

" Mr. Wellon hasn't any little children ; have you got
any little children ? " she asked.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

*' No," answered he, turning away.

"Are you a Romis' pries'?" was her next inquiry,
using tlie words (except tor childishness of pronunciation)
as familiarly as if she had been reading and spelling out
of a book of controversy, the little thing !

Seeing the gentleman change color slightly, or noticing,
perhaps, some other slight change which a child's eye so
readily detects and a child's mind interprets as well as it
knows how, she hastened to ask him, looking abashed,

" Is that bad ? "

" Oh, no. But what made you tliink of it ? Where
did you hear about Romish priests ? "

" I don't know where I heard it. I h(^ard it some-
where," answered the little one, in her simplicity. " 1
heard mamma i^ay it, and Mr. Wellon."

" Did they say that I was one ? " said he, in a lower
voice than before.

" No ; they didn't say you ; they said some men were
that."

" And what sort of man do you think it is ? "

" 1 think it's a man like you."

" And why do you think it's a man like me ? " he asked
again, smiling.

I don't know ; I think it is," the little thing said, giv-
ing a child's reason.

"And is it somebody like Mr. Wellon, do you
think?"

" Oh ! no. It isn't a man like Mr. Wellon," said she,
decidedly.

" What is Mr. Wellon, then ? Do you know ? "

" Oh, yes ! I know Mr. Wellon is a pries' of God,"
she answered, looking up to him.

" Wlio is your mamma ? "

i':k

A MKKTING.

" Her name is IVIrs. Barre, and my name is Mary
Barre. I'm her little daughter."

" And how old are you, child ? " he inquired, looking
away, over the water.

" I shall be a bi;; girl pretty soon. I'm going on six.
That's pretty big, isn't it? Mamma says I shall be a
woman pretty soon, if I live, because my pnpa's gone."

Mr. Debree, at these words, looked back at the child,
and said, " Where is he gone ? "

She answered as if she were sure of having made a
friend of him, " I think he's gone up in the sky ; for my
mamma wears black clothes, and cries sometimes ; and
iliat's what people do when some one goes up in the sky.
I think he's been gone about thirty years." This last she
said with tho same innocent confidence as the rest ; lavish-
ing the time like any other treasure of unknown worth.

Her companion did not smile, but stood and looked at
her, and then turned again and walked away ; and the
little thing, as if satisfied with having established so much
of an acquaintance as to have let him know who she was,
and how old, turned up the path, without looking back.

Presently she was singing at the top of her voice, as
she sat upon a stone : —

The iceberg f 'oats, all still and st'ong,
From the hiixl of ice and snow:

Full fifty fallom above the sea,
Two hundred fallom below."

Then as if her little rhyme had been a sacred hymn, from
Holy Writ or the Church Service, she added, " Glory be
to tlie Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, — in
the beginning, — ever shall be. world avout end. Amen."

The children, who had been i)h»ying or i)icking berries.

TUB NEW rillKST.

I '

close at Imiiil, st.artcd up like a eovey of birds, and joined
little IMary, and the " woman with the red ribbon," who
was not far olV, came at almost the same moment.

" What was 'e saying to 'ee, lovey ? " and " what did 'e
come back for ? " and " what did he tell 'ec about a
prastc ? " " Do you know him ? " and other like, were the
cloud of questions that swarmed about little IMary from
the woman and the children ; the woman not forgetting at
the same time, to put the straw hat which had been hang-
ing, as we said, from our little acijuaintance's neck, into
its proper i)lace upon her head.

From amidst this swarm of sharp interrogatories, IMary
started ofl' to llee. She fell and scattered a good mjiny of
her berries before she got far, gatluired uj) as many as
she could, before the company, which followed slowly,
overtook her, and then managed to keep in front of them,
and then of such as were left of them, (for they dropped
oft'by degrees,) until she I'eached her home.

Mrs. Barre, in receiving her, thanked the woman who
had kept her in sight, and bought, at the same time, some
quarts of berries, by way of returning a favor ; then took
Mary up in her arms, and hurried to hear her account of
her doings.

" Please ma'am," called the Avorthy neiglilior after her,
" there was a gentleman stopped and talked wi' she some
while. He said no harm, [ don't think, tor I kept anighst
'em, but 'e was this 'am' handsome-looking praste that's
corned, as tiny says, to live in the harbor ; *is namci's
somethin, I don' rightly mind ; and he gave her bit of a
posey, ef she's a-got 'n now."

Tne mother thanked her again, and for informing her
of the child's talking with that gentleman, saying she
would ask about her afternoon's adventures.

A MEKTINQ.

To this the little adventurer herself, fresh from the ex-
citement, assented very cordially.

"I talked very kindly to him, mamma," said JMary,
when they were alone together, inside. "I told him I
was your little girl, and he wanted to know what a Ko-
mis' pries' was, jmd I told him I thought he was a Komis'
pries' ; and he asked me whether my papa was gone up in
the sky."

" Are you sorry that your papa is gone ? " asked Mrs.
Barre.

" Yes, I always am sorry ; why do you ask me that a
great many times, mamma ? "

"Sometimes I forge.; and I want you to love Heav-
enly Father very much, and pray to llim. Wjiere is the
flower he gave you, darling? "

"There it is, mamma, and I'll give it to you," said the
little one, dragging it forth from among her berries.

" Thank you, love," said her mother, kissing her, and
taking the flower, which she did not give back.

THE iNLW i'iiJEiir.

CHAPTER X.

SOME GOSSIP AND SOMG REAL LIFB.

'^'^ F an outlandish friirMlc had come in and furled hor
broad sails, and dropju'd licr heavy anchors, and
swunjij round to them, with iier strange colors flying,
and lowenid away a half dozen hiack boats, and held them
in tow Mt her side and astern, and lay there, with foreign-
looking marines pacing in her main chains, and a crowd
of foreigners swarming on her decks, there would have
been some stir in the quiet little town of Peterport, and
its (piiet neighborhood. The pciople would, probably,
have managed to go out to the ledge to fish, and the
women would, i)robably, have contrived to spread and
turn their lish on the flakes, and hoe their gardens, — all
besides gratifying their curiosity; and those who might
come from afar to gaze upon, and ask, and talk about, the
outlanders, would, probably, get through their usual day's
work besides ; but, far and neai', and for a long time, the
thing would be in their thoughts and in their talk, on
land and on wa'er, at flake and at fii-eside.

So it w.as with the coming of the Romish priest to
Peterport. The people talked, and wondei-ed, and feared ;
and some one or two of the warmer-spirited wives pro-
posed to have him driven off.

Mr. O'Rourke, the Roman Catholic merchant, was

SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

»g>

was

either seen more, or more observed, and the remaining
people of his persuasion, planters and others, were thought
to have (very naturally) an air of more than common
confidence and satisfaction. Still more was this supposed
to be the case in Castle Bay, where, though the i)lace
itself was less considerable, the number of Roman Cath-
olics was twice as large.

Young Urston's case, and the epidemic that h.ad settled
itself in Marchants' Cove, and seemed, now, to have laid
hold on Lucy liarbury, divi(l(;d, with the other tojiic, the
public mind of Peterport. There was a general wish
that the l*arson were in the harbor, as well for the sake
of the sick, (of whom, though none died, yet several were
alfected with a lasting delirium,) as for the safeguard of
the j)hu'e against the invasion of the adverse priest.

The uppor circle was .-i small one: — The Clergymnn,
the widoweil Mis. liarro, the Worners, and Miss Dare ; the
merchant -stipendiary-magistrate -and -churchwarden, Mr.
Naughton; Mr. Skipland, a merchant; Mr. McLauren,
the other churchwarden, living near Frank's Cove, — a
worthy Irishman, — (the three latter being unmarried
men,) and, lastly, the OTlourkes, Roman Catholics, made
the whole round. The members of it had some subjects
of interest beside, but they had chiefly the same as those
that occupied the planters.

Of course the harbor heard, from open mouth to open
ear, the story of the widowed lady's strange interview
with the Romish priest ; nor was there little speculation
about the unknown tie that bound, or had bound, them to
each other. They had not met again, and he was seldom
seen by day ; sometimes, at night. Some said, of course,
that "he walked in darkness." She, too, was not seen
often.

THE NEW PRIEST.

Bl i

Miss Dare came and went as ever. Only wliat follows
of what was said and done between her and Mrs. Barre.
concerns our story.

As she came in, late on the afternoon of little Mary's
walk, her friend answered her first question, which was
rather anxious, —

" Do you know, my dear Mrs. Barre, how you've
changed within a few days ? You must try to rest ; cer-
tainly not undertake new labor."

" I don't know," answered Mrs. l^arre, " that I'm not
as well as usual ; " but there was an anxiousness in her
eyes, and a careworn look about her face, as well as a
nervous agita Ion in her manner.

" You won't insist, now, upon watching with Lucy
Barbury ? "

" Yes ; I would really rather. It would be a relief, as
well as a satisfaction to me," said Mrs. Barre.

" Well ; th'jn, I'll go back to my aunt's, and come down
after tea."

So saying, Miss Dare took her leave.

Late in the moonlight evening, she walked with her
friend (there is no danger here) towards Skipper George's.
There were no people in the road ; but as Miss Dare felt
a quiver in the hand that lay on her arm, she noticed, a
good way off, a man whose gait and figure were remark-
able, and, as they drew nearer, recognized him as the
Romish Priest. No greeting or sign of any sort passed
between them.

As the lady came, pale and thoughtful-looking, out of
the night into the house where Lucy Barbury lay sick,
the father, with his manly and dignified respect, welcomed
her from his heart. The mother, overwatched and over-
wearied, was })ersuaded to go to bed ; but Skipper George
kept his place, quietly.

SOMK GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

1)7

her

)ut of
pick,
omed
over-
eorge

Theiv; was scarco, any sound, except from tlic t^ick
maiden, who very constantly spoke jv strove to sing.

As once a liglit was carried in and used about her, it
was a touching sight to sec tlie girl who lately was so glad.

A wet cloth commonly lay on her forehead, shading
her eyes and hiding a good deal of her face. When it
was taken off, it could be seen what work the fever had
been doing. To be sure, her rich black hair poured oiit
from under her white cap like a stream, and the soft, long
fringes of the lids sprend over lu'r half-closed eyes like a
soft fern-spray over the littU; pool at the tree's foot ; and
the bending neck and sloping siioulders, over which her
white night-dress was drawn and heh^ by a button, were
still beautiful ; but the eyes were deeply sunk, and the
face was thin, and the lips chapped and parched.

Her kerchief and other things, that had looked so
prettily upon her, lay with her prayer-book on a chair at
hand.

During the night she do/ed, sometimes, and generally
her voice was heard in the low raving of half-sleep. It
poured forth as steadily as water in a stream, and as
changing and as formless ; bright thoughts and strange
fancies, and sweet words ; being and hope, and beauty
and happiness, and home and sadness ; prayer, song,
chant ; things far off and things near, things high and low.

So the slow hours of night passed ; and the pale, sad
lady, the body of whose child had been so lately laid
deep in the earth, ministered.

In the carhe3t morning, about four o'clock, a neighbor-
woman came, and the fisherman gently insisted on seeing
Mrs. Barre home.

She slept late into the day.

TUK NKW rUIEttl.

CHAPTER XI.

TWO MHKT AGAIN.

US. HAKUK had rostod, afllor licr wafch, and
[' oarly in llie at'U'rnoon slio walked out, down
iho harbor; tliis time alone. She passed JMar-
chants' C'ove, and turn, and hill, and narrow way, to
Franiis' C'ove ; an«l erossinj; th<^ stile, and ffoinjj alonir
the meadow-pat ii, and thron;;h tiie ^or^ije of the nionntain
of roek, slu* stood in Mad Cove. Tiic stony slope went
steeply hollowinjj; down to the littli^ shelf of land at the
water-side ; the ridge of roek went along to the left, and
ended in the tall elitts at the sea; near her was the
widow Frenev's honse ; a little farther down, to the left,
the hovel of Tom Somerset ; and down at the bottom of
the slope were the eight or ten honses of the other people,
and the flakes of tlu^ whole eolony.

What dilference there is between yesterday and to-day !
The great earth has tnrned over its tv.cMity-four thousand
miles of land and sea, eities and woods and deserts, be-
tween ; twilight, darkness, day, have come between ;
where a breath would have reached yesterday, there may
be, now, wide waves and storms between.

Mrs. Barre stood thinking or remembering at the verge
of the cove.

By and by she drew near to ISIrs. Freney's house, and
knocked.

, )

TWO MKKT AGAIN.

!)!)

verge

\e, and

Tho priests of the Roin.'in Catholio <lenorptnation <lo
not visit generally ainoiiir ihvlr ))('0|>l<', unless to adminis-
ter saerainents; hut as tlie door <>|>(Mie(l, Father ])ehr<!e
was staudin;j5 I'aciu;^ it, as pah; and sad as tjje pale sad
lady who nnexpeeledly eonlVontrd iiini. She started at
the suddenness of the siglit, elosed her eyes for an instant,
but stood where slje was.

There was a Ukeness of face and expression, beyond
that of the sadness and paleness, and of fij^urc and bear-
ing, also. There w.'ts the same high foreh(!ad, and (exeept
that hers were darker) the same full, thoughtful, feeling
eyes.

« Must this be ? " he said.

" It IS ; beyond all hope ! " she answered.

"How can you hoi)e it?"

" How can I any thing else ? " she said ; " I have but
one chief object in life."

" But what should bring us together, if there be no
longer a common faith ? "

" That there may be ! "

" I did not know that I must meet this, in coming
to this far-off place ! " the other said. " I cannot feel
the drawing of old ties ! — I cannot see you ! "

There was nothing like sternness or hardness in his
way of saying this, but of gentle, fixed resolve.

" I must ! I must, while I have life ! " ahe eaid, not
loudly but most earnestly.

Mrs. Freney stood, a silent and amazed listener ; and
the children looked up, wondering.

" I beg pardon, Mrs. Fr ney," said the lady ; " I came
to ask about your child."

Mrs. Freney was so )ewildered, that she scarce knew
what to answer :-^

IIU)

TIIK NKW PIMMsr.

" SIh»'h (Inin^r wril, (liimk'«M», Mu'nin ; — I mciiii, lir'n
min'li iIh' sMiiic."

l-'Mllicr Di'hn'c siiiil, liiniiiij; lo her (nol wIiIkmiI n<^i<ji-
lion) : —

*' H' V(»ii vnw pnid vcmr «'l(I('s( cliiM willi me, I will Hvud
lnu'k l»y lnT 1\V(» or llirrc Ijlllr (liinn;^ lor her lirolliorl"

Ajiuin Mrs. llniiv s|m»I\(' : —

" \\u\ 1 sIimII not follow voii Oirllior (liini just oiilsido
tlio door: Itnt I iiinsi smv soiuotiiino more, now (iod Ium
fjixt'n nu' o|t|)ortunilv."

" (V'TlMinlv," ho jinswon'd ; " I cinnot bo hsirHli or r\uh)
to you. 1 will liom*. this on«'<>, and hiin;^ all to an ond.
(\)nu>. child ! }Xo <»n ! "

'riio ;iirl opcnod iho dooi* and |>ass(»d out ; tho lady
^laNcly bowed to i\Irs. l-'iv-noy and tbilowod, and KalJHT
J)«>br(M». loa\iniL; a blossin^r in tho Imnso, wont last.

lb> bade tho irirl sit down npon a sloiu', and walkiu}^ a
IV'W |>a«'os onward, slopped to talk with iNIrs. liai'i'o.

" Why shonld w«' meet ?" he aske<l.

" Why shonld W(> meet ! How am we lud)

» n»eetn»!jr.

if tluM'e ho he.'iven and hell herearter, and il'onr Lilo and
D<'ath (lepend upon our duty «lone or undone ? 1 havo
not ohanjr«'d ; what 1 was, I am."

"All human ti<*s arc 1oos(mI from me," ho said. "To
do a ]ui(^st's work is my oidy duty, and my otdy wish. I
cannot, ovoi\ in momory, rooall any othor tio."

" What ! is all oomnion life and happiness and hope
and duty — is every thinjjj that bound us to«jjether, perished
forever? Can you strike it away, because you will not
have it ? — It all lives, here," she continued, laying her
two hands on her bosom, "and will not die !"

" But it is dead with me ! " he answered.

A pang, as from a winged arrow, seemed to shoot

TWO MKI'Vr A(}\FN.

101

(liroiifijli Iior ; but w!n^ri h\u> upoko, Iht voicn wuh little
ln'okcii.

" It miiy br ho!" Kbo Hftid. •' () Wiillrr ! I j-laitn no
love. I do not nsk for it. I only lisk that tlicro hIihII
not b<> ii wnii bardcr tliati iron between us ! I only nsk
tlial I in.'iy liavr Iciivc, lioni timo lo lim<i — only from
tini<> t(t tiinr — to Hpcak to yon, or write to yon, and that
you will bear and answn* mo ! That is not nun-li ! — not
nnicli from you lo nic ! Jf you ar<3 an you nay, it cannot
burt you! — Waller! Waller!"

Ilcr eyes were only full of learn.

I lis faee (juivered ; bis frame was nbaken.

" No, 1 eami<»l ! " b<^ said ; " it must not be ! It is im-
[>ossible ! "

" Hut r ]»eseeeli you, for (lod's sak<! !" sbe said, clasp-
in;j; ber two bands to bim.

'• No ! " be answered. " For ( lod's sak(«, T must not ! "

Tears stood in bis eyes ; bow could be binder tlu^m !

"Ob!" she cried, elosin}jj ber eyes, and casting down
ber face.

" Even us a priest, you niifj^bt j^rant me tins ! "

" As a priest, I cannot do it ! Ob ! do not tbink it
cruelly or bardness of heart ; my very beart is being
eaten out ; — but 1 cannot ! "

She left him, instantly, and walked veiy hurriedly
away.

On, on, en she went ; up the harbor, as she had come ;
into her own pretty little yard, into her house, up to her
chamber.

Little IMary came running into her mother's loora, but
Btopped ; for her mother was kneeling at a chair, liolding
a letter.

The child went down upon her little knees at another

10.

THE NEW PRIEST.

h I'

Wfi^-iM'i

chair, laying her check down upon her arm, with her face
toward her mother, and pretty soon beginning to play
gently with the coral beads about her neck.

As Mrs. Barre rose, she came across and set her lips
upon the forehead of her pretty little daughter, and
smoothed her hair.

" Now, darling," said she, " do you think you can do
an errand for me exactly as I tell you ? '* As she spoke
she folded the letter in white paper.

'* Oh yes, mamma ! " said Mary, eagerly, " I'm sure I
can."

" There's a gentleman coming along, and you're to run
after him and give him this, and tell him it belongs to
him ; and then you're to run back as fast as you can ;
and don't stop for any thing. Can you ? "

The little ambassadress was sure that she could do just
as she was bid, and Mrs. Barre reiterated her instruc-
tions : —

"Mind; you're not to stop for any thing. If he
speaks to you, or calls you, you're to run back to me as
fast as you can."

The child assented, and repeated her mother's words.

" It's a costly thing ! " said Mrs. Barre, looking forth,
as if from the quay her eyes were following towards the
far oflP, fateful ocean, the full-sailed ship that bore her all
in one venture.

" Now, dear ! Quick ! There he's going — don't for-
get ! " she exclaimed, breathless. " Run ! and come
straight back ! " The priest whom she had met in Mad
Cove was just passing.

Little Mary ran down stairs, and then out upon the
road, with her golden curls shaking and shining in the
sunlight. The gentleman turned and took the parcel

|! Mi

TWO MEET AGAIN.

103

from her hand ; then, having opened it, looked after her,
as if he wou] ^ call ; but prese;nly he turned again and
walked on.

Little Mary only varied a little from her orders. Hav-
ing run away from him as fast as she could run, she
stopped, as a bird might stop, and looked back ; but he
did not turn again, so she came in.

This timo, too, as before, her mother was upon her
knees, and the child stood looking out of the window.
As her mother rose, she said : —

" That's the same one I saw the other day, mamma ! '*
Her mother was thinking her own thoughts.

Mary had a child's way :

" Why do you cry so much, when my papa's gone up
'n sky, and brother Willie ? " she asked.

Mrs. Barre wept silently. The little prattler went on
prattling

" If I could go up there, I'd ask Heavenly Father
where my papa was. He'd know, wouldn't He, mamma ?
Heavenly Father would know, because He knows every
thing. He'd show me my papa ; and I'd go up to him
and say, ' I'm your little girl Mary, that you left at
mamma's house when you came up here/ and then he'd
know me."

The little thing was not satisfied with the silent acqui-
escence that she got.

" Mamma ! Mamma ! " she exclaimed, " I saw little
brother Willie ! "

"When, dearit?" asked her mother, now heeding
her.

" Just now, — a little while ago, — and he leaded me by
my hand near to where Heavenly Father was sitting
on his great chair. Then Heavenly Father got up and

104

THE NKW PUIEST.

oponcd liis closot and look down ono of our little boy's
play things, and gave it to our little Willie ; — (He didn't
give any to nie ;) but lie looked at Willie's little sister
as if He was glad to see me. Little WilUe knew who I
was, mamma, because Ik; saw my paper."

"What paper, darling?" asked her mother, entirely
oeoupied with the ehild's story.

'* INIy paper — don't you know ? That you writed
* INfarv Barre ' on, for your little girl. I throwed it away
uj) in sky, and wind blew it away up, so Willie could see
it ; and Willie knev/ what little girl it was."

" Come with me, you dear little dreamer!" said Miss
Dare, who suddenly appeannl at the door; and, snatching
uj» Mary, she carried her oft'.

She set the child under the bowery branches of a
seringa, and stood among the shrubs and floating sprays
of creepers, which she had a year before gathered about
the house, a fairer thing than the sunshine that was play-
ing among them ; and she sang for the child's pleasure a
song broken into pauses now '"id then, much as the sun-
shine was, here and there, broken into shade. Perhaps
our readers have seen or will see how the song may have
been sujiirested.

'eo"

" Woe for the brave ship Orient!
Woe for the old ship Orient!
For in brond, broad light,
With the land in sight, —
W'here the waters bubbled white, —
One great, sharp shriek ! —One shudder of affright I
And—

down went the brave old ship, tJio Orient ! "

Her voice was a fine, full alto, never needing any
effort, but now apparently kept low, for Mary's ear. The
air which she very likely adapted to the words, was

any
The
was

TWO MEET AGAIN.

105

much tlio samo in gi'iicral jis that of the ' Bonny liouse o'
Airlie;' and her voic'«; IKiw upward and flitlcd from part
to part auionji; the words, as a hird from bough to bough ;
but the song all hved in the singing.

The shriek seemed to s[)ht tiie air, and the shudder to
be shaking strong hearts, and a, wail- to wander sadly
over the sea, where the good ship had foundered. She
paused here for a while, and then began again in a sweet,
tripping measure : —

" It wivs the fjiirest day in tbo mnrry montlj of May,
And sloopiticss had settled on the seas;
And wo Iiad our wliite sail set, — high up and higlier yet, —
And our flau; flashed and fluttered, at its ease;
The Cross of St. (Jeorj^e, that in mountain and in porfjc, —
On the hot and diKity plain, — on the tiresome, trackless, mam —
Conqneriiifj; out, — contjuering home again, —
Had flamed, tiie world over, on the breeze."

However it was that she fitted the music to the words,
it seemed much as if every line took its own formi in
leaving the singer's lips, in the fittest melody.

•' Ours was the far- famed Albion,
And she had her best look of might and beauty on,
As she swept across the seas that day.
The wmd was fair and soft, both alow and aloft,
Aiid we wore the idle hours away."

A straying lock of her own hair was tossed by the
playful wind between her lips, and she stood silent again ;
— the little girl clambered to the top of the fence and
seated herself there.

" Please sing, cousin Fanny ! " she said, when she was
seated. Miss Dare sang again : —

" The steadying sun lieavcd up, as day drew on,
And there grew along swell of the sea;

(which seemed to grow %n her singing, too,)

•I

106

THE NEW PRIEST.

And, first in upper air, then under, everywhere.

From the topmost, towering sail, down, down to quarter-rail,

The wind began to breatlie more free.
*Ho! Ililloa! A sail!' was the topraan's hail—
• A sail, hull down, upon our lee ! '

Then, with sea-glass to his eye,

And his gi-ay locks blowing by,

The Admiral guessed what she might be ;

And from top and from deck. Was it ship? Was it wreck?

A far off, far off speck.

Of a sudden we found upon our lee."

" Here comes Mr. Naughton ! " said the child from her
perch, like the topman from his lookout ; " and somebody's
with him, — it's James Urston ! "

Miss Dare hastened to take the little one down ; and
as she was retreating into the house, the voice of the mer-
chant-churchwarden-and-magistrate was heard, urging
upon the young lover, who had abandoned his preparation
for the Romish priesthood, the excellence of, a life of celi-
bacy; and regretting that Mr. Wellon (though he was
unmarried, certainly) was not under the obligations of a
vow.

Miss Dare's song was broken off.

A SAD YOUNG UKAKT.

107

CHAPTER XII.

A SAD TO UNO HEART.

)HAT quiet day was passing down to quiet night ;
the sun was near his setting, as young Urston
came alone along the road and took one of the
paths that led up over the hill to the Backside.

He started at his name, called in a cracked voice, like
that of a parrot, at his very shoulder ; and, turning his
head, saw that he was passing unaware a group of two
old women, who were standing against a fence, probably
chaffing about the gossip of the harbor, or croning over
memories of the time when they (old withered bodies !)
were the young. There are more of these old people
here than anywhere, almost, so many overlive the three-
score years and ten. One of these elders was the Granny
Pilchard, a woman whose quickness and activity were
not exhausted yet, by a long use of eighty-one years of
changing seasons, and as changeful scenes of life. The
other gossip was " Old " Granny Frank, as she was
called, though younger than her comrade by full seven
years. The title " Granny," common to them both, is as
well a medical and professional distinction, in Newfound-
land, as one implying age. Granny Pilchard held at
this moment a pitcher in her hand, which the young man
knew out of a hundred, — a little white one, with just a

108

THE NKW PRIEST.

slender line of blue alotig the brim. At least lie might
have known it, and wliat fair hand had often borne it.

" Good evening, Granny, and you. Granny Frank,"
he said, rather impatiently, as if he did not wish to stop.
When we have met with such a thing as had lately hap-
pened to young Urston, and wish to be alone, we have at
the same time (at all events the young have, if not all
of us) an appreiiension that it is ail written in English
on our faces, or has been overheard, or carried by the
wind or winged birds ; perhaps James Urston thought
so.

" Thou'rt goun up over. Mister Jemmie Urston, I
think," continued Graimy Palasher, (this was her vernac-
ular name,) in pursuance of her object in addressing him,
" and 'ee'Il most likely want to stop and hear for 'eeself ;
and so Missis Frank says I'm wantun up at Rivei'head,
she thinks, and 'ee'll plase take this ])itcher u}) to she. It's
a marsel o' water out o' Ilar-pool she wanted," (it will be
remembered, as James, no doubt, remembered, how he
drank out of that spring that morning,) " and Fve abin
and got un. 'Ee see he's so fresh and clear as the blue
sky, in a manner. I wouldn' lave her, only the mother
'11 be up, in short. I s'pose 'ee baint afeared to see her
lovie ? an' nobody wi' her but the tother little one ? Lad3
didn't oose to be fear'd o' maaids, when 1 was one."

Old Granny Frank, at this allusion to young days and
their doings, gurgled in her throat with a cracked laugh,
and, when she could recover the poor little wheezy re-
mainder of her voice from its employment in laughing,
uttered a few shrill and grating, though not loud, words
with it, in contirmation of the last remark of her com-
panion. These came, one after another, as if they were
stamped and thrown out.

liii':^

A SAD YOUNG HEART.

109

** They'd — oosc — to be — tar-ri-blc — boy-ish — when — 1
— know'd — *em."

One of the Mughy gurgles came after the wonls, lik(5
one that had been separated from its com[)jinions.

The more vigorous Granny Palasher proceeded.

" Now, will 'ee be s6 well plased as "

" I'm in a great hurry, Graimy," interru[)ted the young
man, not changing color, or seeming disconcerted, but
with a look of grave deterniiuation, " and 1 can't very
well call there this evening."

"Oh! 'Ee haven' agot time; have '<;e?" said the
old woman ; then explained to Gratniy Frank : " That's
that pretty Lucy IJarbury, Granny ! " Upon which the
latter urged another laugh U[) her dry throat, and a few
more words.

(( >

Mm ! So— I've— ahard ! "

" I do'no what soart thes'am' young folks are, now-a-
days," said Granny Palasher. " Go thy w'ys, then,
Mister James Urston. I feeled for 'ee, but mubbe I'll
get another young man I knows of, in a minit."

The young man did not stay for parley.

" You may get whom you like, Granny Palasher,"
said he. " I thank you for your goodwill ; but I'm in a
hurry just now. Good-day ! " And, leaving the pitcher
in the bearer's hand, he mounted the hill as fast as before.

The granny made this comment on his speech : —

" This'am' yoimg chap thinks a body that's abin through
wi' everything, don' know the manin' o' things ! "

The thin, cracked voice of old Granny Frank went up
after him as he mounted, jerking its word.-^ : —

" Isn'— 'e— a— Ro-man ? "

He was not yet beyond hearing, when Granny Palasher
answered : —

THE NEW PRIEST.

'f 1;

,ri ■■-t:

" 'Is ; but there's no danger o' she."

lie hurried on, and left the old gossips to themselves.
Up the path he hastened toward the ridge boimding the
meadow, at the farther side of which stood Skipper
George's house.

Mounting, as the sun mounts up, seems fit work for the
morning. There is a spring in the strong, young body,
that almost throws it up into the air ; and airy wings
seem to lift one at either side. But it was evening, and
this young Urston had been, and was now going through
a terrible trial, and there was a heaviness about his mo-
tions, and a sad paleness about his face, that did not
belong to him.

As he got up to the edge of the little meadow, and it
lay before him, with its several less-distinguished tracks,
— looking nc so much like different ways, as the same
one unstranded, — and the house, backing against the little
cliff, he paused ; and it is no wonder. They say that on
some table-land, among the mountains of Quito, lies a
gorgeous city, in which the old Indian race still holds its
own. The roofs and battlements glitter with gold ; for
the people have kept, from father to son, the secret of
richer mines than any that the whites have found in Cali-
fornia. Now, fifty yards across the meadow, at the edge
of which James Urston stood, glittered with many sheets
of glowing gold, the house in which Skipper George's
daughter was lying sick. It was a plain, unpainted
house, and, at any time when the gold, which the morning
or evening sun laid on it, had been taken off, was but the
dwelling of an honest, poor man. Yet he looked long ;
and it seemed as if he dared not set foot upon that mea-
dow, any more than if it and the house were an enchanted
scene. There was not a hundred yards of space between

A SAO YOUNG HEART.

Ill

him and the house ; but what a world of separation lay
between him and Skipper George's daughter ! The very
golden glare of the sunlight from it in his face— now
fading— increased the separation. The reflected glow
fiided from his person, and he hastily crossed the ridge,
and passed on.

112

THE NKW I'RIKST.

CHAPTER XIIT.

A GUI: AT LOSS.

(C/Jr^ N tliG niglit of the day of wlii(;h we have been
j1-n| writing, (tliat fifteenth day of August,) Mr. Weilon,

V/ who had eome across, in hh way home, from Por-
tugal Cove to Sandy Harbor, in a boat belonging^ toj lie
latter place, was sitting late in conversation ymj^^Lr.
Kewers, the clergyman of Sandy Harbor, when ^PPenly
the ' Society * * schoolmaster, a man of an inquiring and
excitable turn of mind, came knocking at the door, ar
announced, eagerly, that some strange woi
going on in Peterport. He said that lights were moving
about, and there was an unusual noise ; something must
be the matter there : it was like tlie " Ralls," years ago.

At this intelligence the two clergymen hastily started
forth, in company with the schoolmaster, for Blazing
Head, — the lower and back part of Sandy Harbor, — from
which a view of Peterport (when it was to be seen) could
be had. They reached, after a few minutes' walk, a high
point, and saw the lights, like running sparks in chimney
soot, and heard plainly, over the water, in lulls of the wind,
the sound of human voices. At this hour of night, and
with the wind bringing in the great murmur of the sen,
the far-off sound of human voices was far more than com-
monly impressive. Our pastor took hurried leave.

* Of the Newfoundland School Sooictv.

A r.UKAT LOSS.

113

fn an liour (with his utmost speed) he was in a pimt
rowed stroiijjfly throii;j;li a <lrenL'hiii<r rain ; and, in an h«)ui'
more, toiling, through raiu and night, to the liackside.

On the road he met no one as he had met no one in
IMarchants' Cove ; but as he drew near the meadow in
wjjicli Skij)per George's house stood, he heard women's
voices, and by-and-by came upon u company, whom by
the ear, not by the eye, he could distinguisli as Old Granny
Frank and ot'^ers of the neighbors. They recognized
him, and announced among themselves, as lie drew near,
" the Pareson ! "

People in tliis country take no heed of weather, (when
they have good reason to be out,) except to dress accord-
ingly.

" jK||l|Mrs. Frank!" cried he, addressing the eldest,
(as C^^ns addressed the old man of the chorus,) but
turnin^or answer to the others, " what has happened ? "

The old woman was doubtless making up her mouth

goealvj but, happily, her grandson's wife spoke for

" Haven'ee hard about Skipper George's darter, sir, —
that's Lucy Barbury, — how she's been atookt out of her
father's house, ever sunce last evenun, and never a word
corned about her, sunce, whatever?"

"Taken away!" exclaimed the Parson, turning from
one to anotlier in amazement, " How do you mean ? "

" Ts — sir, — an' — her — bed — wi' — her ; " gurgled the
Granny, gaining her speech.

" They'm bin sarchun all over, sir," added Patience
Frank, " an' Skipper George 's inside now, w'itun for

'ee."

" Let me see ! " said the pastor, staying for no further
talk, but hurrvinoj towards the house.

114

THE NKVV IRIKST.

The old and yoiin;; women, and others, loitered for a
little gossip, and to hear the end.

" Did 'ee see the Pareson, Grannie, wiien I told un?
Did'ee see un shake his head ? "

" To — be — sure — e — would," answered Old Granny
Frank oracularly.

" 'E did then ; shookt it just this w*y," continued
Pati(;nce. " What do 'ee think. Granny ? "

" It — '11 — be — sid," answered the granny, in her jerky
way. " 'E — do!ied — I — two — shillun — worth — o' — good
•^wi' — a — pr'y'r — e* — made — t'oth-er — d'y."

" Did um, then ? I shouldn' wonder ! "

" Wull ! — some — says — an-gels — an' — some — says —
faa-ir-ies ; — but — I — knows — what — I — thinks, — " said
the possessor of threescore years of observation ,apd ex-
pei-ience. .)^^||^'

"All so. Granny!" assented Patience, who, if she
should live so long, was in a fair way to be as wise, "I
thinks gezac'ly the same."

"Ay, — child, — it — 'II — be — sid — a-fore — ma-ny—
d'ys — be — up ; " and the old body hurried away, while
she had her mystery entire.

As the two speakers separated, the little gathering drew
nearer to the cottago-door, with new food for speculation
in the granny's utterance, which had, somehow, invested
the subject in a more ominous perplexity than before.

The clergyman passed straight to the chimney, where
the afflicted father sat, among many others, indeed, but
the one of them all. There he was ; not even smoking
the accustomed pipe, but with his hands upon his knees
and his chin buried in his breast, looking upon the kitchen
fire. He did not sit despondently and slouchingly, but
apright like a man ; and like a man who, having done

A GKKAT LOSS.

wlmtevcr could be done as yet, was waiting to set forth
again and do whatever inigiit be left for man to do. A
crowd of neighbors made their way in, after the Parson.
All but the father rose: he neither saw nor heard.

"* Peace be to this* house,' " the pastor said, " ' and to
all that dwell in it.'"

At this, immediately the father took off his weather-
worn straw hat and stood.

" Amen ! " he said (as others with hira) ; presently add-
ing, "Sarvant, sir; you're very weleome home, again."

A more honest, manly, kind, true face than his has
seldom met the oi)en air and the broad sunlight, or
fronted tearing wind, or chilling wet, or driving snow;
or met warm welcome, as it was seen by a wife through
the half-opened door ; or beamed, friendly and fatherly,
on frolics of children at the hearth. Now, it was clouded.

" Why, Skipper George ! " said the pastor, " what is
it, ray good friend ? Do tell me ! " Then, pressing the
father to a seat, he silently sat down to listen.

" Ah, sir," the father said, " I've a-sid heavy misfort'n
sunce the last sun as ever rose. It's my Lucy, sir ; you
know'd her sir," — his voice breaking, — " so well as I
a'most, an' she loved the good Lord an' E's dear Church !
well, sir, she was sick from short afrer you laved the
Iiarbor tuU this evenun : that's 'isterday evenun, I should
sav." — He sighed as he thus reminded himself of the
time already gone, by which the separation had been so
much widened. — '' She was goun through the worse of it,
and we thowt, naterally, that as she didn' get no worse
she would get better, if it was His will, and so the doctor
said, (that's Dr. Aylwin, sir, of Brigus.) So when I turns
out in the marnin 'isterday, — which I doned nearly about
wi' the first sun, — aft 3r I'd said my bit of a pr'yer, I says

liil'i i

116

THE NEW PRIEST.

to myself, as a body will, you know, sir, I says, now I
think I'll jes go down to B'y Harbor, mubbe, after I got
through lishin', and get a marsel o' figs,* or sech-like, for
my poor, dear maid ; liopin, mayhap, the faver m'y take
a turn, and then they'd help her to goody a bit ; and any-
how I had a two and sixpence that I'd a-kep this many's
the d'y against I may want itj and a body likes to do
summat cheery for a sick darter when he can ; so I goes
and I looks upon her, and, to my seemin', she looked jest
as ef it wus an angel a layin' there, that had put on my
gal's look, and her face, and her hair. She looked so
bright someliow, — so oncommon bright, I was a'most
afeared to kiss her ; but I did, sir, thank God ; I did, sir,
and it seemed in a manner, to bring my darter back ; for
she says, very low like, ' Father ! ' she says, ' What lovey ? *
says I ; ' Dear father ! ' says she, and nothin' more ; and
I couldn' help it, but I cried much as I'm doin' now, sir ;
but I do'no why I'm so long a tellin' it, on'y I'm afeared
to get upon the rest of it. However, I went out and
corned home wi' my few fish, and hurried and got off and
went over to Backside, and got myself put over to Bread
an' Cheese Cove, and so travelled afoot the rest part o'
the w'y, and got the trifle o' things, and came round by
Castle B'y river-head. I s'pose I might be gOue a matter
of six hours, most likely ; when I got to the top 'o the
hill by the church and sid the house, I s'pose I might 'a
felt it was eni[)ty ; but I didn't, sir. It seemed, in a
manner, as ef strength blowed out of it, couiehow, to me,
I growed so much livelier ; and I stowed aw'y my little
parcels in my pockets, thinkin', perhaps, she'd feel in 'em,
pl'ying like, as she'd oose to do, when she feeled herself
better. So I walks up to the door, and lo and beJiold it
* In common parlance this word nieans raisins.

ai5«'i

A GREAT LOSS.

117

■9»

little
. 'em.

was open ; but I thought nothin' strange and I went in,
and right into the place where I'd aleft her, sir, and she
wasn't there. ' Mother ! ' — says I ; but my missis wasn't
there : * Granny ! ' says I, but she wasn't there ; then my
t'other little gal that was sittin' down by the door, tryin*
to tie her shoe, and cryun', said, ' Daddy, she's gone aw'y,
Daddy,' she said, ' Daddy, she's gone aw'y. Daddy ; ' and
my heart went once jest as a tish would go, and I never
asked her who she maned, but I sid there was somethun
tarrible strange ; and so I sat down on the binch and gave
one great sigh like, that seemed to ase me ; and then I
got up and tookt my poor little papers and put them on
the bed, and follyed right out to see ef I could find what
had becomed of her. So we sarched all evenun, and we've
asarched all night; and so — I'm sittun here, as I be
now, sir, — 'Tw'as a bad night for she ! — Ah, well ! God
knows."

As he said this the bereaved man sat and wept, openly
and steadily, in silence. Not a motion was made nor
a word said until he wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand, and turned his honest, manly face again, and said : —

" I found my mistress ; an' I found Granny Palasher ;
an' I sid Miss Dare that was just comun up ; I could find
every body ; but we never found my dear young maid !
It isn' like we woul', sir. God's will be done, however.
'E'll do what 'E sis best."

The simple story ended, he turned quietly away from
his hearer, as if there were nothing more for him to say,
and he would listen now.

The pastor rose up and took his hand in both his,
and said " Amen ! " There was a general motion among
the company, and many repeatiul the word. The pus-
tor's voice trembled as he said —

118

Till': NEW I'UIKST

" God bless you ! Skipper George ; we must find lier,
or find " lie paused.

The fishennan made that most expressive gesture of
head and hand which is read in all languages, and touches
any class ot* men, meaning —

" Ah ! you needn't say it, sir ! I know."

"Let's see where we are," said the Parson, and he
turned toward the company, among whom was the con-
stable. " ]Mr. Gilpin, you know all about it ? " he asked
of this worthy man, who was, also, one of the two smiths
of the place. Charles Gilpin—" Mr. Galpin," " JMr. Gul-
pin," " Skipper Chai-lie," as he was variously called, was
an Englishman, middle sized, with a face dark by nature,
and always wearing a shade of grime from his " forge,"
and slightly pitted by the varioloid. His right eye was
•wanting, having been d(\>^troyed by an aciident in firing a
salute on the king's l)irlhday, in one of his own young<a'
hours. The remaining!; orb in that iinnamont seemed as
much brighter as if the other had been absorbed into it,
and had joined its fires. lie was an intelligent, pleasant
looking fellow, with that quick motion of the muscles
about the eye that marks the possession of humor.

" I've done my best at it, sir," answered the constable,
with modest brevity.

" Who saw Lucy last ? "

" I can tell 'ee, sir, ef 'cell i>lase to let me," said the
brave old fisherman. " I've got it all by heart, in a
manner. 'Twas Granny Palasiier hai>p(Mied to be bidin
wi' her, (for we didn' oose to have reg'lar watchers d'y-
times, sir, only we never laved her long,) an' so Lucy
waked up and called for a drink, granny says; an' she
didn' want tay, an' she did'n want spruce,* an' she wanted

* Spruce beer ; a common beverage.

t.„

A GIIKAT LOSS.

119

a drink from tlie Ilarpool — that's it in tlie hollow under
the bank, t'other side o' tlie (rhiirch, you know, sir; an' so
the granny went aw'y to fetch it, never thinkun o' naw-
thun, of course, an' nobody's sid a sign of her sunce, only
poor little Janie said she goed round the corner."

" How long wtus the granny gone ?"

" I can' be exac'ly accountable, sir, how long she was
aw'y ; she m'y ha' sto|)ped to pass a word wi' a nighbor,
sartainly, but 'twouldn' be long, it isn' likely."

" AVho lives nearest on the Backside ? The Urstons, I
think."

" Is, sir; Mr. Urston that married my missis's sister."

" The father of tlie young man that was going to be a
Romish priest?" asked the clergyman.

" 'Is, sir ; but 'e've knocked off beun' a good wliile sunce,
and 'e's a good lad," said the father, shutting off' all sus-
picion in that (juarter.

'' How do things stand between your family and thcir's,
now ? " Mr. Wellon asked.

" Mr. Urston's wife was my missis's sister, 'ee know,
sir, — that is, half-sister, — and then my missis is a good
bit younger, and was abrought uj) in England, mostly,
tuU she v/as a woman. 'Twas Mr. Urston an' his son put
me over from Backside to Bread-and-Cheese Cove. I
maned to ax Tummas Turtas, — lives a bit beyond they, —
\\ hen they were goun down to waterside, and off'crs m(3 a
l)assage, an' I could n' deny 'em. Ah ! " he said, coming
back to his great grief, " she's alossed now, that I would n'
loss for all the fish in the sea, and swiles on the ice, and
fruits o' the land ! Thank 'ee, kindly, sir ; I ax pardon
for bein' so troublesome. 'Ee'll plase to excuse me,
nighbors." So saying, Skipper George prepared to go
forth again.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

"It isn' d'y light, yet ; is it ? " he asked, putting great
restraint upon himself.

" Light's beginnun to come up over, Uncle George,"
said Prudence Barbury.

Here the memory of the pleasant times and pleasant
words that were gone, or the thought of sadness present
or to come, again overcame him, as also his words and his
condition were more than some of his sturdy neighbors
could bear.

" She was too good for this world," said one ; " an*
that's where she's gone, most like."

" No, Nahthan, it won't do for 'ee to say that," said the
father ; and then explained. " They manes that God
have tookt her, sir, (blessed be 'E's name !) as 'E tookt
Enoch, in a manner, because o' what Jesse sid ; (that's
my nevy, Jesse of Abram, — lives under the brow o' the
hill, — Jesse Hill, we calls un ;) I didn' tell 'ee, sir. 'E
was over on the water against Backside, wi' another,
jiggin' for squids,* an' 'e sid somethin' like a maid or a
'oman, all dressed in white, like an angel, goun over
Backside-w'y ; and, all of a suddent, she was gone right
aw'y like. 'E couldn' tell ef the groun' was stove, or
parted under her, or how, 'e said ; but it seemed to be
gone right aAv'y, an' they never sid her come, no more ;
and so 'e comed right aw'y home, and told the people 'e
tlioft 'e'd asid a spirit ; but sure, there's nawthin' in that,
sir ; is there ? On'y, mubbe, it might be a kind of a
visage,t like, that my poor child would never come
back."

" There may be a good deal in it," answered the Par-
son.

* Catching a fisii that serves for bait,
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A GREAT LOSS.

121

The eyes of all were intently fixed on him, and the
father, even, lifted his from the tire.

" I don't think it was any spirit," continued their pastor.
" What clothes had Lucy on, most likely ? "

" Oh ! navvthin', sir, hut just as she was in bed. It 'ud
make a strange body cry, a'most, to see 'er poor frock
hangin' up there, and 'er two shoes standin' by the side o*
the bed, an' she aw'y, an' never comun back, most
likely. Many's the time I've alooked at they, sunce, an*
cried ; it looks so heartless, like."

The people about Skipper George were no " strange
bodies ; " and some of them could not help doing as he had
done, and as he did.

" Now, sir," said he, rising to depart, and holding his
weather-worn straw hat in his two honest hands, " I think
'ee knows all."

"I wouldn't have you go out again, just yet," said Mr.
Wellon. "I'U take my turn, now, and any fresh hands
that I can find."

" Here's one, then, sir," exclaimed the constable, start-
ing to his feet.

" Haven't you been out all night ? " asked the Min-
ister.

" Yes, sir, but not all day yet ; we've got the day be-
fore us. I can sleep when we've got done."

" Then I'll be back, God willing, in little more than
half an hour ; and, if you please, we'll go as far as we've
any thing to guide us. I wish to go over the ground, at
least, if nothing comes of it."

"I'm sure 'ee woul', sir," said the father, in a very
kindly way. " It's no use ; I can't lay out plans now.
I've got my handes, and something to make 'em work ; *'
(one might almost see a great, grieving heart heave, as

122

THE NEW PRIEST.

lie said this.) " I'll bide 'E's will ; an' cf I never sis her
walking on this land, I may in a better, ef it's 'E's will."

As he spoke of not again seeing her, in the body, he
brought up, with the palm outward, his honest, hard hand
whose fingers were bent with long years' toil, and thrust
away some too attractive vision, and, as he said the last
words, brought it down again to its former occupation of
holding the rim of his hat.

He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon
pressed his honest, hard hand, he lifted to his pastor one
of those childlike looks that only come out on the face of
the true man, that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around
ring, adding each after-age to the childhood that has
never been lost, but has been kept innermost. This fish-
erman seemed like one of those that plied their trade,
and were the Lord's disciples, at the Sea of Galilee,
eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and blood
inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.
Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,)
poet, painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever; how fresh
and fair such an one looks out from under his old age.
Let him be Christian, too, and he shall look as if — shed-
ding this outward — the inward being would walk forth a
glorified one.

" Sit here, among your neighbors. Skipper George,"
the pastor said ; " I mean to be back shortly. — Another
great grief and mystery in our little harbor ! " he added,
as he turned away.

With these words, he left his sorrowing parishioner's
bouse, and went forth.

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A NEW MAN.

123

CHAPTER XIV.

A NEW MAN.

S Mr. Wellon left the room, the attention of the
company was drawn to a new voict, that seemed
ahnost to have been started mechanically by the
general rising, so suddenly, and witliout warning, it began,

" Wliy, she's cleared out 'n one 'f her hot spells, an*
when she'd got light-headed ; 's no kind o' doubt o' that
'n my mind," said the strange voice.

The speaker was an under-sized man, of thirty-eight
or forty years, w4th well-looking features, and bright, in-
telligent eyes. His scanty hair went curling downwards
from a bald spot on the top of his head, for which, also, a
part of the neigliboring locks were compelled to furnish a
thin covering. The baldness had been worn rather by
the weight of the months' feet that had gone over it, than
by their number, or had been dried by inward heat of
busy thought ; his dress was such as would become a
iiigher sort of mechanic, or a trader on a modest scale.

The sentence seemed to be delivered forthright into the
middle of a world all full of opinions, and questions, and
determinations, to find itself a place. He looked before
him, but with eyes that seemed to look at the same time
to either side, and his tone had a character of continu-
ance, as if — having begun — it rested with circumstances
when his ending would be.

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THE NEW PRIKST.

The company having composed itself, after the IMinia-
ter's departure, the new speaker was seated, tiUing back
in his chair, with liis right ancle resting on his left knee,
and his hat in his lap.

" Wall then," he continued, " question is, which way d'd
she go ? *F course every body's got to judge f 'r 'imself
'n that point, but I guess w' might come p'ty nigh it, 'f w*
were jest t' talk it over a little."

While saying this the speaker took an opportunity to
glance at each of the remaining speakers of the former
dialogue, and at the rest of the company generally, and
meeting with no let or hindrance, seemed to think that he
had found a place for his opinion, and went on more con-
fidently than before. He did not look at Skipper George,
at whom he chiefly talked, but looked to the left hand of
him.

The father regarded him with grave earnestness. The
constable, after flasliing his eye at Skipper George,
watched, curiously, the new interlocutor ; and the other
neighbors listened with different degrees of eagerness.

"'S I understand f'm what's ben said t'-night, 'n 'f'm
what I've heard before I come — ('m pooty much t' home,
'n Peterport, ben here twelve hours o' daylight, an' 'taint
a large place) — 't's pooty gen'lly und'stood, I guess, 't
this young lady, 'r gal — whatever ye may call her — 'Ster
Barbury's daughter, here," (turning to the fisherman, who
said, " Is, sir, thank'ee, my darter, an' more than darter
for the like of I ; ") 's be' sick 'f a sort 'f a — typhoid
they call 'em 'th us, — same 't they've had down 'n Mar-
chants' Cove, there, 's ye call it. Wall ! I never saw s'
many folks out o' their head 'th that fever 's they is here,
not reg'lar hoppin mad, but out o' kilter 'n the upper
regions, 's th' sayin' is. Wall, now, 'n the hot fit come

A NEW MAN.

125

on, 't 'd make her stronger, an when her mind 'a out o*
tlie way, ye see, 'twould, likely, make her want t' try an*
do soniethin'."

The interest with which his hearers had been listening
was evidently not flagging.

" It's Mister Banks, the American marchant," said Pa-
tience Frank, (for she was there,) to a neighbor-woman.

" Wall, then, question comes : what would she do ?
Why, 'cordin' to. She wanted a drink o' water, f ' one thing ;
wall, s'pose she 'as very dry, sh' might go off to git some,
hkely. 'F all she wanted was water t' cool her, sh' might
take 't into her head to git into the water ; but, then, bein'
crazy don't make a fool 'f a gal, 'f sh' wa'n't one b'fore ;
and they wa'n't any thin' lik' that 'bout this young lady.
Then, don't ye see, the' was lots o' folks, by all 'counts, on
the flakes, (ye call 'em,) an' round, an' one of 'em *s her
mother ; so she didn't go down that way, whether or no.
Wall, then, again, 'tain't likely she was all thust ; she had
some notions b'sides that : (we ain't all flesh and blood, I
guess.) Le's see."

^ It was strange to see the unflagging attention of the au-
dience to this lengthened argument, given, as it was, Avith
no attractions of oratory, or enforcement of gesture, except
an invariable sticking of the thumb and forefinger of the
right hand into the palm of the left, (much as we have
known a good old Greek professor to practise with his
pencil and a hole in his inkstand.) There was a persist-
ency and push in the arguer's voice, and an adhesiveness
in his expressions, that carried his reasonings in, and
made them stick. So there was a general assenting in
words, besides silent affirmations and negations of the
head, as he affirmed and denied.

« That's a clear case ! " " Surely ! " " All so, sir I " and

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THE NKW PRIKST.

the like, refreshed the speaker much us the parenthetic
" hear " and cheers of the House of Commons, or as the
plaudits of the Athenians gratiliod Demosthenes.

The constable, as if his cue were only to keep official
eye and ear upon the speaker, let him go on, without
meddling with him, and kept silence. The father heard
Mr. Bangs with steady attention.

*' Wall ! " continued the reasoner, " then comes ques-
tion again ; which Avay ? Sis' says right, no doubt. Sh*
went right round the corner o' the house, an' down to —
back pare o' the place, here — "

" 'Is ; Backside, sir, we calls it," says a neighbor.

" Wall, 't's a good name, no doubt. The's two roads
goin' 'long, up an' down, I believe — "

" 'Is, sir," said one of the neighbors ; " there's the
summer w'y and the winter w'y, by Cub's Cove, and
the Cosh, and so into the woods."

"Fact, I' ben on both of 'em myself," continued the
speaker. " Then the's a path goin from Skipper George's
(s'pose I ought to call him) — "

" It's a compliment they pays un," said the constable.

" Don't heed it, sir," said the stout fisherman ; " George
is plenty good enough for I, alw'ys ; and, most of all,
now."

If the kindness that lies in such compliments embellishes
common times, there is no danger of times of sorrow
wanting them. The reasoner resumed, keeping the title
now that he had got it.

" The's a path from Skipper George's right acrost these
two roads, (that is, ye call 'em roads 'n this country) wall,
I guess she kep' the path t'U she got to these two roads,
('f ye call 'em so,) f 'r 't's plaguey hard makin tracks out-
side of a road, here — (fact, 'tain't al'a's the easiest trav-

A NKVV MAN.

127

ellin' in 'om, ])'t tliat's 'notlier question,) — she kcp' the
path t'i slio got t' those two rojids, an* then question is,
which way? Siic'd take some way eertin. I guess ye'll
tiiink we might 's well try t' hejir 'em 'leetioneerin' 'r
taikin' polities 'n the modn, 's try t' guess what was in her
mind ; but look a' here, now ; s'posln' she'd heard o' the
old gentleman's goin down t' Uay Harbor ; she might
want to go after him ; but then, here's this story o' Jesse
Hill — 'f that's his name, lie saw her, aecordin' to his
story, (f'r, I take it, th'r' ain't 'ny reas'nablc doubt b*t
Hwas the gal he saw,) where she must ha' ben on t'other
path. Now I understand gals sometimes take a notion t*
care f'r other folks b'sides their fathers ; 't seems to ha'
ben the way with 'cm, by all accounts — f 'm Grandm'ther
Eve, 's fur 's 1 know. I don't say how 'twas in this case,
but she must ha' ben a takin' piece herself, b' all accounts
— an' then, if the' was a k'nd 'fa runnin' idea 'f someb'dy
'n her mind, why, somehow 'r other, she'd be very apt to
folia that idea. She didn't show any sensitive feelins,
did she?"

" I don' rightly understand 'ee, sir," said the father, " I
ben't a larn'd man 'ee know."

" Sh' didn't feel *ny tender 'motions, I s'pose ? That
is, she hadn't taken a notion to one more'n another?—
young man I mean, livin' somew'e's round ? "

The fiither answered gravely, but with the same hearty
readiness as before —

" I know a father can't, mubbe, feel proper sure, al-
w'ys — to say sure — of his darter's heart ; but so fur as a
man can be sartain, I'm sarten sure my Lucy would
never have agrowed to e'er a body, knowunly, atliout my
knowun it, as well. There was a neighbor's son, surely
— that's young Mr. Urston we spoke about — mubbe there

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TIIK NKW riMKST.

might have somcthim* come out o' tluit ; hut thcy'm Ko-
mans, and my poor, dear maid lovod licr Sjivior too much
to hear to e'er a Roman. She'll tolly her own church,
thank God, wiillo she's* livin', or ef slui's dead, as is most
like, she'll never change now, to ought else, only hetter

an' more."

"No more she woul', Skipi)er George; that's a clear
case," said Zebedee Alarchant.

" Wall, on'y jest started proposition ; 'hope 's no harm
done. Ye think the' wa'n't forbid to keep company ; do
ye ? Wall ; on'y 'f 'twas my gall, (but the' ain't 'ny TH/Zm
Bangs, yet, I guess, — but it' 'twas, — ) should be willin' t'
bet a tburp'ns hap'ny — ('t's a coin ye hain't got 't's equal
to, — wall, 't's a small sum o' money, b't it' bcttin's t' settle
it, should be willin' to bet) — they know soin'th'n 'bout her
'n that family. Kuther think the folks 'n that house, —
(called in there, a minit, an' as'd f'r a drink o' water,
seein' the' Avas a light burnin ; didn't see anythin out o'
tir way, j)'tic'lar, but,) — nitlier guess, 'f tliey were put to't,
they've s<;en or heard of her, one o' th' two. Ye see,
there's that punt, 's ye call it, 't the cap'n the brig, there,
saw 'th th' nuns, or what not, in't ; (fact, I saw 'em m'self,
— that is, I saw one great black one, 'n' a couple 'f other
women," — here there was great sensation among the
hearers, — " w'n I's peekin' round the house, to see what's
goin on ;) should like, pleggily, to know what the nuns
were up to, 'th their punt, an' what 'twas they kerried

down Wall, 'f those folks do knoWj it's plcggy strange

though ! Wh', anybody 't had got the feelin's 'f a man, 'd
go on his hands 'n knees round all outdoors — wall, he'd go
a pooty long chalk, any way — fr a neighb'r 'n distress."

"Young Mv. Urston 's a good lad," said the father;
" an' the family ain't a bad family, ef they be Romans."

A NKW MAN.

129

" Wall, I've said 'bout all I've ;j;ot t' say, \)*ty much.
Yc're welcomo to it f what 't's worth. 'Find th' ain't
l^'oiii' to be much to do, 'ii th(! way o' business, t'U they
conie back I'm Labrador, 'thout I take to Iccturiiru spoil,
— (got 'n exhibition o' dissolviii' vi(!ws; ust-d to charj^e
one an' six, Yankee money; m't make it a shlUm', cur-
rency, here ; but) — 'f the's anythin' jjjoin' on, while I've
got spare time, here'.*'- one man ready."

" Thank'ee, kindly, sir," said Skipper George. "I'm
sure, it's very good of 'ee to take so much eonsarn vvi*

tiitrang(;rs.

" Wall, 'don't feel's though folks ware strangers, when
they're in trouble. B't 't's 'bout time f ' me to be trav'llin',
I guess," concluded Mr. l^angs, who had taken up his
hat, and maje a start out of the way of thanks. " Do'no
'xac'Iy customs here, ye know ; — I'k a lisli out o' water,
ye may say. Make my compliments t' th' I'arson, 's ye
call him, 'f 't's ruleable, 'n' tell him 'promised t' put up
'th s'm folks 'long down the harbor. Wish ye good-night,
all ! "

So saying, — the gathering of neighbors in the room
opening and letting him through, — he went out into the
open air and the morning twilight, and walked away with
short, quick steps, swinging one arm.

" Well ! " said the constable, releasing his long attention
in a deep breath, " tiiere's a fellow that'll git under way
without waitun for tide to float un off, any how ; " and,
with this remark, the constable, also, went hastily forth.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XV.

TRACES OF THE LOST.

jITHIN the half hour that he had mentioned,
the Parson had got back from his own house,
and the constable joined him near Skipper
George's door. It was a dull, dreary-looking hour of
day, so thick that Mr. Wellon and his companion soon
hid themselves " multo nebulae circum amictu." *

" Jesse Barbury will join us presently," said the former,
as they crossed the ridge. " I wish to follow out his
story, if nothing comes of it, even. We'll keep down the
path, and he can't miss us, though the light is long com-
ing, this cloudy morning. We can wait a little for him at
the rock, there. I should like to hear something more
about her sickness."

The earth and its growth were wet, and hung with
drops, but it was not raining now. The early morning
air was chilly and thick, and nothing at a little distance
could be seen. While Gilpin was telling the story of the
maiden's fever, of which the reader knows more than the
constable told, the light of day gradually spread itself; at
first exposing the mist, and afterwards driving it away.

* Mn. I. 412. With ii thick cloak of cloud about them.

TRACES OF THE LOST.

131

In the little time that they were standing, a short, sharp
fall of rain came down upon them, and then the clouds
began to break. The light fast opened the whole land-
scape of the neighborhood in which the sad anu mysteri-
ous event had taken place.

" It's clearing off finely," said the Parson, with a hope-
ful tone of augury.

" Yes, sir," said the constable, with little sound of the
same feeling in his answer.

" That's a queer chap, that Yankee that was in the
kitchen, sir," he resumed, after a pause ; " and he's got
some pretty 'cute notions, too. He says she's gone off to
the Urstons' house in a fit o' craziness. You know it's
said, sir, there was something between the young people ;
however he found it out."

" Most likely she has gone out in one of those fits,"
said Mr. Wello.i ; "but Jesse Hill's the point that we're
to begin at, I think ; I've sent for Jesse ."

*• And there he's coming now, sir, over the gool'-bushes
yonder. I see his great fur cap, and his great red whis-
kers under it, liKe a forge-fire."

" We'll find out about this sight of his first, if we can,"
said the Parson. " By the way, we forgot to take the
dog ! " added he, suddenly.

" No, sir, he came along. There he is, sir, nosing
about yonder. We've luid a dozen of 'em out, and he
too ; — Susan brought un."

"■ We'll give him another chance to-day," said hi.~: mas-
ter; "but this rain isn't much in his favor, or ours
either."

"Jesse Barbury, or Jesse Hill, came up, conspicuous
for red whiskers and freckles, but looking honestly sad.
" Sarvant, sir ! " he said to hi. pastor, lifting his hat;

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THE NEW PRIEST.

and in a lower and more familiar voic& to the constable,
" Plope 'ee're hearty, Mister Gulpin."

" We're going down the Backside, Jesse. Will you
go along and see if we can mal.e out whereabouts that
white thing was when you saw it ? "

" Sartin, sir," said Jesse Hill, falling into the rear while
they took the path through the bushes, as a boat in tow
might fall astern.

As they were far enough over to have the land going
right down between them and the shore, Mr. Wellon,
keeping his eyes toward the water, inquired of Jesse
whereabouts his punt had been the evening before at the
time of the vision.

" Sir ! " said Jesse, emphatically, by way of exclama-
tion, not question, and evidently glad to be opened, " ef
'ee plase to bring yon var (fir) on wi' the road at tother
side, sir, up over, we was about a fourth part o' the w'y
acrost, sir ; and Izik Maifen, that was along "

*' And where was the figure when you first saw it ? "
asked the Parson, cutting gently off the tail of Jesse
Hill's discourse.

" It comed right out of a big bush, seemunly, sir, — to
my seemun, sir, and Izil; Maffen ."

"Would you know the bush if you could see it?"

" Mubbe I mought, sir. I can' be rightlj'- sure, sir —
to say sure, sir."

" What color was it, Je sse ? Was it yellow, or red ? "
asked the constable.

" Wu^', ]Mr. Gulpin, it was dark lookun ; I couldn' say
gezacly, but 'twas dark-lookun ; and Iz ."

" That's pretty well, Jesse ; you kept all the v/its you
had about you, if you did get frightened. Can you see
it from here ? "

TKACES OF THE LOST.

133

onstable,

►Vill you
outs that

jar while
t in tow

nd going
Wellon,
of Jesse
re at the

3xclama-

ned, " ef

a,t tother

the w'y

saw it?"
of Jesse

, sir, — to

?"
re, sir —

»r red ? "

ildn' say

vits you
you see

The fisherman surveyed the whole surroundnig scenery
with an eye that from infancy, almost, had learned to note
landmarks ; and here were plenty of bushes to choose
from, — a wilderness of them, — but he recognized none.
Here and there, at a distance, were still scattered a few
persons who seemed to be searching.

" Ef I was down at tother side o' they bushes," he
began.

" Surely, Jesse, that's only reasonable ; you're a better
sailor than I be."

" Ay, Jesse," said his pastor, who had been looking
with eager but sad eyes over the waste ; " get down
somewhere where you can see it as you saw it before.
That's Mister Urston's house over there ? "

" Is, sure, sir ; that's 'e's house, sir," answered Jesse.

" There's that new popish priest, talking with Skipper
George ! " said Gilpin ; and as our Parson turned, he
saw the companion of his walk of a few days before,
standing uncovered, (perhaps out of respect to the bare
head of the sorrowing father,) and so engaged as not to
see Mr. Wellon and his party.

'' Yes, that was he ! " exclaimed Mr. Wellon.

" Yes, sir, and that's just their way of going on," said
the constable.

" He won't lead George Barbury astray," said our
pastor, giving a long look, however, in that direction.

"'Deed, 'e wou'n't, then," said Jesse Hill; and the
party again set forward, Mr. Wellon last.

" Thisam's the path from Uncle George's w'y," said
Jesse, as they struck it. Having gone down some dis-
tance upon it, Jesse said : —

" Woul' 'ee be so well plased as bide here a spurt, sir ?
an' I'll come back to 'ee, in short."

I inn;

134

THK NliW I'RIKST.

Beliind them, just at a turn of the way, was a large
bush. Jcsso, walk<Hl down the |)a(h, noting the bearings
on caoli sido, and turning round once, he .soon came to
a stand.

" riasc to fall astarn a bit, ]\Ir. (Juipin," he called out;
and the constable-smith did as directed.

Suddenly they were all startled by the running of one
of the distant |)arties towards them. The <log gave a
s'lort bark. " There's Izik, now, sir ! " said Jesse, loud
enough to be heard from where he stood.

" Have you found any signs of her ? " asked Mr. Wel-
lon, as the new party drew near. Their answer destroyed
all ho[)e from that source; they had only come to offer to
help the Parson, " seeing he seemed to be sarchin', like.'*

" Well, .lesse ! " said the constable.

" Ava>*t, a bit ! " was Jesse's answer. " So ! " and he
came back again.

" Thisam's the bush, sir,*' said Ik;. Kf 'ee'U plase to
look, just as Mr. Gulpin's a comun out trom behind un,
sir, jesso what I sid comed out, an' goed right down Ik re,
didn't 'em, Izik?"

The substance, who had come to represent the name
that had hitherto been so frequent on Jesse's tongue, was
a gaunt, hard-featured fellow, and why Jesse should have
been his leader and principal, (unless because he was not
quite as ugly, or was, perhaps, better off,) was hard to say.

The bush stood in such a way at the turning of the
path, that a short man or a woman might, on the other
side, have been hidden for a little distance ; the ground
being for a few rods hollow, and then going up again.

Izik MatTen, appealed to, looked dutifully at Jesse
Hill from under his woolliMi cap,* and made his answer : —

♦ or Paisley bonnet. '

TRACES OF THE LOST.

135

" I*s sure 'c (lid, then, Jesse."

" We can coine buck this way ; let ns go down to
where she disappeared, if we can find it," said the Pur-
son, setting out.

" Do 'ee think has tiic Pareson got track o' she ? " said
one of the new followers, aside, — a silent, quiet man, who
generally kept himself back.

The sun, rising, as he was, had found a place between
the clouds to look out through ui)on the earth, and upon
the sad search that these few men were making, without
a trace to guide them, and where all had been already
searched. The sea shone before him, and myriads of
rain-dro[)s glistened on all sides ; the green was fairer
and brighter everywhere than usual ; but if there could
have been any possibility of tracing, at any time, foot-
prints on the rough and gravelly path that they were fol-
lowing, this rain had washed all sligiit i)rints, of whatever
kind, away, had made its own marks, h(!ap(!d u[) its little
black gatherings of mould from the bushes on the white
earth, and tilled all lesser hollows with water.

" Did it go all the way down here, Jesse ? " asked Mr.
Wellon.

" 'Is, sir," answered Jesse Hill ; " sometimes we sid it,
an' more times agin we didn' see it ; but it goed like a
white sail, in a manner, sir, passin' by the green bushes ;
it didn' walk, seenundy, to my seemun ; and Izik MafFen,
that was along wi' I, ."

" Where did you see tlie last of it ? "

" Down a bit, sir, by the house."

Mr. Urston's house stood along by the bank or cliff,
and for some little distance round it the bushes were
cleared off. The garden, inclosed with its " pickets,"
stretched before it, towards the land, (or behind it, if the

•!.:

136

THE NEW PRIEST.

liiii

iiii'

I iiii

! h

ii'i'l

ill:

i'.ii'

■lil"

other side towards the water were counted front,) a
dozen rods, perhaps; the house itself was uninclosed,
and, in our country style, a comfortable looking dwelling,
and in good keeping-uj). Some firs and other growth,
which had got far enough up the precipice to stand a
little above its edge, would have prevented any person
very near the house from being seen from the place in
which Jesse Hill and his comrade had been on the
water.

The dogs of Newfoundland are not unlike the dogs of
other countries in their dealings with one another ; and
the intrusion or near approach of a stranger is a thing
about which the dog at home gets to his feet, and puts up
his tail, and bristles his mane, and shows his teeth.

As the Parson and his ' following ' drew towards the
house, great care was taken to prevent a fight between
his dog and a large brindled fellow^ that lay growling on
the fiat stone before Mr. Urston's door ; and the fight
was prevented ; the proper occupant of the place being
left undisturbed to his occupation, and the other being
marched off, with the tramp of many shod feet, and ex-
hortations fi-om several voices mingled with his own,
toward the cliff or steep bank (for the shore was in one
place one, and in another place the other) at the water-
side.

A wild and picturesque chasm, called the " Worrell,"
was broken out of the rock near the house, approached
on the eastern side by a slope of the land which was con-
tinued in a ledge down the face of the landward wall, to
some broken masses of rock at the bottom. A bit of
gray beach lay among and beside these rocks ; and while
the water came freely in, and was sheltered entirely on
three sides, there was also a jutting out of one of the

* uMMfHip I tm^mm

TRACES OF TIIK LOST.

137

1 fight
being

rocky walls in such a way as to throw a barrier half
across the opening, and to form a little safe cove with a
sand bottom, entirely defended by cliffs. Here Mr. Urs-
ton kept several punts, and otliers resorted to the spot
for a convenient landing-place. Small trees had got a
footliold here and there on the broken walls of this hole
in the shore ; and near the top, where soil had been
washed over, bushes were growing.

The fishermen looked to the Parson as he scanned
carefully all sides, and the rocks and beach at the bot-
tom ; and they also examined with their eyes the neigh-
boring ground, and in a low voice carried on their spec-
ulations with each other.

" How long did you stay where you were after the
white thing had disappeared ? " he asked, turning round
to Jesse, who, with Isaac close at hand, was waiting to be
called upon again.

" Well now, I couldn' rightly say, Pareson Wellon,
how long it was, sir ; not to say gezac'ly, sir ; but it were
a short spurt ; for Izik says to I, ses he, ."

The actual Isaac seemed not to have supplanted the
historical one, whom Jesse had so frequently introduced ;
but Jesse had no touch of any thing but solemn serious-
ness in his way of telling what he knew.

" Did you keep on looking ? "

" 'Is sir, 'deed we did, sir ; we kep' lookin' so str'ight
as a needle pointin', in a manner, sir ; — but we never sid
nothin' after that, — no more, sir."

" No more we didn', sure enough," affirmed his faithful
Isaac, solemnly.

" I can tell 'ee now, sir," said Jesse, who had recol-
lected himself; "we'd jest asid a punt comin' round
Castle-Bay Point, wlien we first cotcli sight o' thisara'

^ '' Hi

l\%

li'1

i'ii

ll'

!:'!

ill'
ill

lilli!

I'ili
'ill

138

THE NEW PRIEST.

white thing. Quick as ever I sid the punt, I ses to
Izik, I says "

"And when you came away, where was the punt,
Jesse ? "

" When we corned aw'y, sir, they was about a half
w'ys up to we sir, wi' oars an' wind, doin' their best ; an'
I sid it was Nahthan "

" How long would tliat take them ? "

" Could n' 'ave abin less than five minutes, sir ; that's
a sure case."

Isaac was appealed to by a look of the speaker, and
affirmed the statement.

" That's a sure case, Jesse," said he.

" And you watched, all that time ? "

" 'Is, sir, we did, sir ; an' a long time arter that ; so
long as ever we could see the place, while we was rowing
aw'y."

"Was it getting dark?"

" No, Pareson, it wasn' gettun dark ; the sun had jest
aknocked off. It mought be a' twilight, sir. We was
jes comun home, however, sir, an' I ses "

A sudden noisy altercation of the dogs diverted for the
moment all attention toward the house. Mr. Urston's
" Ducker " had come out to the path, and it had needed
but a moment to embroil him with the stranger.

" Mr. Gilpin ! " exclaimed the Parson, at this alarm.

" 'E isn' 'ere, sir," answered one of the company ; but at
the moment the constable appeared at the corner of the
house, and set himself, understandingly, to the work of
keeping the noisy debaters asunder.

Immediately behind appeared a woman of about sixty
years, announced among Mr. Wellon's company as ' Granny
Calloran ' ! whom we have called young Urston's nurse.

TRACES OF THE LOST.

139

She was one of those women in whom the process of dry-
ing away with age seems to leave the essence of will and
energy, concentrated, after the manner of a chemical
evaporat'.^' '^ler features, too, had that expression of
standing out, that befits such a cliaracter.

Without noticing Gilpin, who had Mr. Wellon's dog by
the collar, she set herself directly in front of the other,
putting her apron over his face. At the same time, with
a brisk blow of the foot, she sent what had, very likely,
been the object of contention into the open hole of the
dog's kennel, under the corner of the house, near which
Gilpin stood. The constable, as suddenly snatched it
out.

" It's a bad ould book, that's afther bein' burnt," said
Mrs. Calloran, wdio saw the motion, holding out her hand
for the blackened and shrivelled mass, which had been,
moreover, disfigured by the teeth of the dog.

" Jesse, lay hold o' the dog, a bit, will 'ee ? " said Gil-
pin, as the men drew up ; and four hands were imme-
diately laid upon Eppy, and a fur cap and a woollen bonnet
met together in the operation.

" It's got pretty good stuff in it, for a bad book," pro-
ceeded the constable, as he carefully disengaged some of
the leaves from their sticking together. " Here's prayers,
for one thing."

" Ah ! thin, it's me darter's prayer-book she was
look in' for, this while back, an* niver got a sight of it,
good or bad," said Mrs. Calloran ; " an' I'm thankful to
ye for findin' it this day."

She again held out her hand for it ; but the finder
seemed in no hurry to part with it.

" You may thank the dogs for that," said he, continu-
ing his examination ; " it's an English Prayer-Book, any

I :

1 " I
\

ii ,•

I I

I 1

fi! I

! h;

ii|

I |i' ■ %:iM

n'M

: !l

j:ii*

i Ii

;i, ,:

'■■;:!

liil^Ai;^!,.

110

THE NKW PRIEST.

how. The one it belonged to isn't very near to you, 1
don't think."

" An', sure, isn't all our pniyer-hooks English ? D'yo
think, do we pray in Hebrew-Greek ? " retorted Mrs.
Calloran, getting warm ; " ar wiiat ? "

She attempted to recover the book by a sudden snatch,
and set the dog free by the same movement. The one-
eyed constable was too quick for her ; but the dog mut-
tered, mischievously.

At this moment, the sound of horse-hoofs upon the
stony ground made itself heard, even among men whose
attention was occupied as was that of Gilpin and his com-
panions.

" There's another of 'em ! " muttered the constable,
aside. — " That's Father Nicliolas, they calls un. — There's
rather too many of those gents for my likin','' he con-
tinued, in his aside, " 'tisn't eight o'clock, yet ; two of 'em,
in two or three hours, don't mean any good, I'll go bail."

The horseman was coming, at a good quick trot, along
the path near the edge of the cliff, from the direction of
Castle-Bay.

Mrs. Calloran, as if aware, by sight or hearing, of
this powerful reinforcement close at hand, (informed, per-
haps, by Gilpin's remarks,) renewed her strength ; and
her face gleamed with satisfaction, even in the midst of
its looks of vexation. She secured the dog, however.

While this animal was working himself up to a rage,
and the other, also, who was in charge of the fishermen,
answered growl for growl, young Mr. Urston appeared,
and changed the state of things. With his voice and his
foot, he speedily persuaded Ducker to go inside of the
house, and leave the field to other arbitrators.

" I'll talk with Mr. Gilpin, Granny," said he-

TRACKS OF Tin: LOST.

rage,
[•men,
iared,
id his
kf the

"An' can't I do tliat, mosclf?" asked she. "Well,
thin, Mr. Galpin, (an' jMr. Galpin I believe it is, indeed,)
let's have no words upon it (an' yerself a man that'rf set
over the peace) ; but will ye «i:ive me the book, quit(i an'
paceable, that ye tuk from tiiis house ? an' mcself '11
lave ye to yer conip.any : an' there's enougli o' thim tiiat
ye woukln't feel lonely, walkiu' away from this, I'm
thinkin'."

" If Mr. Urston will look here a minute, (I snp{)0se he
won't be afraid of one Church-book,) I'll show him, in a
jiffey," answered the constable. " There ! " said he, as
the young man followed his invitation. " I'm sure if that
isn't Church, the Archbisliop of Canterbury isn't Cluu'ch.
' Articles agreed upon by the Archbisho[)s and Bishops of
both Provinces, and the whole Clergy : ' — and there's
' Articles of the Church of Englaiul.' Does that book
belong here ? "

" No, indeed," said James Urston, " it's not your book,
Granny, and it does not belong to any one here."

" There seems to be some little misunderstanding
between you and your excellent neighbors," said a new
voice, very blandly ; and the speaker, whom Gilpin had
called Father Nicholas, appeared, on foot, near the house.
He -fis a man in the prime of life, and of an ai)pearance
that would strike even a rude man, at first glance. His
eyes were deep-set and dark, with a I.igh forehead, firm,
sharp lips, and a complexion like slightly-yellowed ivory,
contrasting strongly with his olack hair. Tliere was a
settled look of authority aboi.t him ; and he had the
reputation of being one whose influence was not less that
of a man of superior mind, than one who bore a sacred
office. Almost less was popularly known or reported
about this gentle nan's history, than about that of the

11;?

Tin; NKW IMJIKSr

lU'W pni'st wlio li:nl cutnt' 1«» rdrrport : nllliotiLrh FiiflMT
Nirliol.Ms liM*l 1h(>h \\\o v«'jhn iin«l imoio in llif m'i;j,lil»t)r-
h(H»<l. -MMtl iIm' t)lln>r, two wt'rUs.

Mis Mi»|u>;n;>mM' «lis('i.iuM'rl«'<l niiti drovf iiilo Icmponiry
nMrt'iU Itcliiinl tin* pickcl-trin'i' one o\' lln' rdcrporl jtop
l.ition. (\\\o silent Mini willitlriiwin;: niMii.) nillicr hIi.msIumI
1 lsM!\«\ ulit» U(<n> lioldiiiu; the (ln-j;. ami rvcii
slit^lilly startltMl Mister ("liMrlcs (olpiii, Mnilli ami coiisla-

is were serious ami sjhldeiUMl, antl ii<»l

tiesse am

lis

Me : hut nu'n's inim

likolv lo vi<'l«l to passimr emotions; — (Jilpiu's Itlood w
waruied, ami that of his lolh)\v<M's was ready to ha»'k
liim : ami so. with tin' soctaul hreath, religious antipathy
gavo them a very d«'t«M-nilned nianner, and tlu' eye of
lluMf h-adcr took a new hriiihtness. Their Tarson, heloi'o
tho alltMvation l>«\u;an, had irone down into the Wonvll,
(tho t'hasm l>eton<-desorib«>d.) and had not conu^ nj).

Th(' prit'st havinj: «;iven the dilVeriMit parties time to
oomposo thiMUselvt's, s\H)ko aiiain ; —

rerhaj

)s vonr ni'ifihhor;

will excuse vou, Mrs. Callo

ran.

Jamos, w

ill vou i\o u\o the favor to ooim' ii»

, on 1

ileaso. sir,

we'll understand about this hook

\ Ciilpin. " Ho bolouijod Jo a friend o' inino.and il' Mrs.
Calloran wants to olaim un, sho knows wIum'c to oomi\
1 if sho'll ]>rovi' hor ])rop(MMy, sho shall have un. It's

an«

worth nion> now than over it cost.

oro nui

it bo some niistako, Mrs. Calloran,

Fat hor Niehola?
• • •«

It IS.

You'd best drop tho thini; whore

" Lavo Skippor Charlio alono for talk," said one to an-
othor of tho oonstablo's followors, naturally foolinp: not a
little proud at his iowo of' toni^uo. Tho constable hini-
solf suddenly took another suhjeet.

" Mrs. Calloran," said he. " did you see Mr. Barbur/g
dauu:htor >inco vesterdav morning?"

:^::

rUACKS ()!• llli: LOST.

i|j;liltor-

iponiry
A'{ pop-

(I t'VCU

constji-
:ii)*l not
H»(l was
to biick
ilipnlliy

«'V«' ol
), hcloni
yVon-t>lI,
p.

(iinc to

. Callo

r "

s book,"

il'INlrs.

o ooiuo,

in. It's

ji," sjiid

r whoi'C

10 to an-
\«ii; not a
jle him-

(arbury'a

*' Mi.-llirr Harlmry's darter! an' did I hvv licr? Do
yv think is it visitin' licr I was, that wasn't in il or ni^li it,
those niiuiy years! How would I he simmhi Misther liar-
hiM'v's darter ? Tlienr's of/irr oiiltl wonini in l*cteij)ort,
Tin thinkinV

*'Ay ! hnt did you see, lier ? " repeatecl tlie eonslaljlci,
holdin;j; on like a niastill'.

"An' siH'e," answered the woman, " wonMn't vvim an-
swer do ye? An' what for nnist ye he. al'lher eonnni,
that has no call to it, an' the, father himself henn iieru
hist evennn ? "

" Hnt yon \\\\)r\\\ answer a plain (pieslion, and a short
one, with a plain, short answer, I think," persisted the
eonstahle.

" Sure is this ihe; place to come asKnn for I-incy l»ar-
bnry ? An' isn't her father's honse the lit place; to look
i'or lu'r, besides axnn nuiself, when it's sori'ow a si<^ht I
soon of h<'r in years, I snppose ? What wonld I do wiU
Lney Harbin-y ?"

"1 ean'l mak<' yon answer, if yon won't answer of yonr
own aecoi'd ; bnt there's sonic that can,'* said the con-
stable.

''An' didn't ye hear nie saynn I didn't know if I seen
licr in years? 1 dono did 1 or no," answered the uncon-
(pierable woman.

" lint that isn't answering my question either; 1 asked
if you'd seen her since yesterday morning," persisted
Skippiu' Charlie.

Young Urston seemed rather inclined to have this ex-
amination go on than to interrupt it. The priest, how-
ever, mediated.

" IMrs. Calloran will doubtless bo willing to answer any
reasonable question;" said he. " I supiwse you have some

[I 1

I i I?-

ili!

I
ill!

liih

ilil'i"'-

144

THE NEW rRIEST.

good reason for asking. You wish to know whether she
saw this young person, or old person, whichever it is,
yesterday ? Whether she got soT^e message from her,
perhaps ? "

" No, sir," said Gilpin ; " Mr. Barbury's daughter's
Liissing, and we want to find her, or find out what's
b'3come of her."

" Is it left her father's house ? Sure that's not a very
good story of a young woman," said Mrs. Calloran, mor-
alizing.

" Granny ! " said young Urston, sternly, "you'll please
noc to speak disrespectfully."

" If it's lost she is, thin may God find her ! " said she,
more sof»'ly.

*' Of course it will be cleared up," said the priest ;
" there's some explanation of it ; and I only hope it will
come out happily for all. You can say whether you
kr'O'.v where she is, or any thing about her, Mrs. Calloran,
and you needn't keep your neighbors waiting."

" Sure thin, yer riverence. Father Nicholas," said Mrs.
Calloran, " it's not meself asked thim to wait ; but if it's
v.'here's Lucy Barbury, indade I dono, more than I know
where the injens is."

•* Now, Mr. Constable, I shall be glad if you're satisfied,
as I'm pressed for time ; but I won't hurry you."

" I haven't got any thing more to ask just now, sir,"
said the constable.

" Then I'll wish you good morning," said the priest,
and went into the house, followed by Mrs. Calloran.

Before going in after them I\Ir. Urston said, —

" She nursed me as early as I can remember, almost :
but if it were necessary to di<x down irv father's house to
find a trace, I say, go on ! Til buihl it again."

SEAKCHLXG SilLL.

ILj

CHAPTER XVI.

SEARCHING STILL.

S the constable and his company drew near the
"Worrell," whitlier Ei)ictetus, the Parson's dog,
had gone immediately on finding himself at
large, Mr. Wellon and the man whom he had taken down
with him were coming up.

"Here's something that may have been her's," said
the former, turning to his companion, who held up a
])lain white cap, which all crowded about and looked
upon, in sacred silence.

It was marked with red thread, already faded, " L. B."

Jesse had uncovered his honest red locks before it,
and more than one of his comrades put the back of his
hand to his eyes.

Presently the general voice said sadly, " Tliat's Lucy's,
and no mistake."

" it was part of that figure that Jesse and Isaac saw,
I think," said Mr. Wellon, in the same tone.

"Do 'ee think 'twould wear a real cap, sir ?" asked
Jesse, who doubtless looked upon what he had seen, on
the evening before, as a preternatural sight.

"I think it was her real self," answered Mr. Wellon,
looking wistfully upon the path, which seemed to have
been the path of death, or strange disaster, to the girl

.' i

\ if''

: ii .

;; \ , ' ■ .:■.!

; ■ ! ,

I'll

,1; ■

i!i

■'!

■ «

146

THE NEW PRIEST.

who had so lately been one of the chief joys and beauties
of the place.

" Where did you find it, sir ? " inquired the con-
stable.

"At the bottom of the Worrell, on the sand under
one of the punts that Zebedee turned over. It may have
floated in on the tide. — I think you told me that boats
were out along the shore here and round the point? "

"Ay, sir, Cap'n Nolesworth and George Kames, you
know, his mate, were round Castle-Bay harbor, and some
are down now, by land, to Bay-IIarbor, and to Brigus ;
Jonathan Frank one way, and Skipj)er Henry Ressle
t'other way. Young Urston, here, was out all night wi'
a lantern, sculling into every place along shore ; but there
wasn't a scrcd nor a scrap to be found ; and Solomon
Kelley and Nahth Marcliant were out till morning ; but I
think now we'll get some track of her, please God, dead
or alive."

" Certainly," said Mr. Wellon, " if she's alive, as I
hope, W-; must hear from her; or if she's lost in the
water, as she may be, we may hope to find her body.
(God help us !) We must get word to e\ ery place that
she could go to."

The lifeless relic that they had recovered, heavy and
dripping with the ocean water, while it brought them
near to her in one respect, yet gave deep meaning to the
suggestion that she might have perished in the sea ; and
in this way it seemed lo impress them all.

" If I can get a crew, by and by, I'll go round the
shore, and give one look by daylight."

" Ef 'ee'll plase to take me an' Izik," said Jesse Hill;
" we'll be proud to go along wi' 'ee, sir."

" ' Deed we woul'," said Isaac Maifon.

iiii'jiii-

W -

SEARCHING STILL

147

eauties
e con-
under
,y have
it boats
?"

es, you
(1 some
Brigus ;
ReSvsle
iglit wi'
lit there
jolomon
^ ; but I
)d, dead

e, as I

in the
r body,
ice that

ivy and

it them

to tlie

a ; and

jnd the

se Hill;

" You've been out a good deal already, though," said
3Mr. Welion.

" AVell, we can afford a little time, Pareson Wellon,"
Baid Jesse. " I don' know who's got a right, ef I haven*,''
and Isaac assented : "All so, Jesse."

"An' I'll make another, if *ee plase, sir," said Zebedeo
Marchant.

A fourth offered immediately, and the crew was com-
plete. This fourth was the quiet man several times men-
tioned.

" We'm got somethun to be doned first, afore that, I
suppose, sir," said Jesse, turning gravely round toward
the wet cap which Zebedee Marchant bore, and which, at
this referenoe, lie raised in silence.

" I think we'd better keep tiiat until we come back,"
said Mr. Wellon, " and then we shall have something, at
least, if we get nothing more. Will you take charge of
it?"

" Whatever 'ee says, sir," said Jesse gravely ; " I'll
take 'un ef 'ee says so, sir ; " and so saying, the honest
fisherman, Skipper George's nephew, spread a great blue
handkerchief upon a rock, and taking the cap from Zebe-
dee, placed it in the handkerchief, and carefully turning
over the corners, said : —

" Thank 'ee Zippity ; 'e'U be safe wi' me ; so 'e was wi'
you, too." He then carefully held it with both hands.

" We'll take time to get something to eat, and then be
off, as soon as we can," said Mr. Wellon.

The excited state of Jesse Barbury's feelings may have
given readiness and directness to his words, for he said
immediately, addressing his pastor : —

" Pareson, would 'ee be so well-plased now, mubbe,
sir, as come an' take a poor morsel o' tay wi' us, ef I

i: i|

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Ipp

iiiii,

'ill
iii

III

'Oil

ii;

iiili'

.1 i

.,1 'it

|i!,;':i

118

THE NEW PRIEST.

m'y make bold. It's poor offerun' sir, I knows ; but my
missus 'ull be clccir proud."

Isaiic Maifen enforced the invitation in his fashion ;
saying, in a moderated voice, " 'Deed she woul', that's a
clear case."

Mr. Wellon accepted, at once, the ready hospitality ;
and Jesse, saying " Come then, Izik," led the way over to
his house, with a very steady, careful step, and without
speaking. Skipper Charlie was not among the company
at the moment; the otlier fishermen, besides Jesse and
his mate, took care of themselves.

The cap was deposited safely upon the Family Bible,
to await their coming back from the new expedition ; and
then Jesse's wife, a pretty woman, once Prudence Frank,
from Frank's Cove, (glad enough to exercise hospitality
for the Pareson,) urged him, modestly, to " plase to make
use o' the milk," (which is quite a luxury among planters
of the out harbors,) and of the ' scrod,' * and all her sim-
ple dainties.

In a few minutes they had finished their hurried meal,
and were shortly at the water-side. Zebedee and the other
were already there.

They skirted the shore along by Frank's Cove, and
Mad Cove, and round Mad Head and Castle-Bay Point.
Nothing had been seen or heard that would throw light
upon the mystery, and the Parson set out to go back on
foot along the beach and the little path by the water's
edge on the Peterport side, while the boat's crew made
the best of their way by water.

The beach was strewed with empty shells, and weeds,
and rubbish, and whited with a line of foam, and, as it
chanced, among the other worthless things there lay a

* A fresh young flsh broiled.

SF ARCHING STILL.

149

meal,
other

woman's shoe which Mr. Wellon ran to, and snatched
eagerly, but saw at a glance, was nothing to his purpose.
He threw it from him into the water, and his dog, exult-
ing, leaped in and secured it. His search was done, and
he went slowly home.

When at length after waiting hours, that information,
if any were to come, might come, he sought Jesse, who
was the depositary of the little thing recovered from the
sea ; the day — the last of the week, — was drawing towards
evening, and twenty-four hours had passed since Lucy's
strange and sad disappearance.

" I said I wouldn' start un tell 'ee comed, sir," said Jesse.

" 'Ee did so, Jesse," said Isaac, who was still with him,
and without delay the little procession set forth.

The fisherman bore the relic reverently in his two
hands, and carefully and quickly, ao if it were an unsub-
stantial thing of frost, that might be wasted by the way.
Near the door of the house of mourning, Jesse and Isaac
drew aside and would not go in, and Jesse gave the slight
memorial into the Parson's hand, and he, uncovering
himself, went in alone.

Skipper George, who sate silently in his chimney-side,
with his wife and little Janie, rose up and took off his
hat on seeing his pastor ; the wife courteseyed and wept.

The visitor put the relic into his hand, without
speaking.

" Have 'ee — ? 'Is, sir, — 'Is, sir," said the father, con-
fusedly, taking the precious thing, but turning it over as
if he could not see it, for something in his eyes, "it's
her's, it's her's. Ah ! God's will be done ! "

Mr. Wellon said nothing of the constable's hope or
expectation of tracing her.

The mother sobbed once, and wept silently, and Skip-
per George rallied himself.

!||S*I(

ilit

'Ml

150

THE NKW PRIEST.

" So ! so ! mother," said he, soothingly, " this 'II never
do ! There, tliere ! lake it and put it by ; mayhap the
dear maid '11 wear it agin, in short, please God."

Mr. Wellon's eye was caught by a lead-pencil-drawing,
that lay on the bench.

" That's her doun, sir," said the father, sadly.

" I did n't know she could draw," answered his visit-
or, taking into his hand the paper, blurred somewhat,
and blistered.

" No more did n' I, sir ; it was the last doun she doned ;
we found it next day where she dropped it, when she
went to bed. She must ha' larned o' Miss Dare, or the
widow-lady."

The visitor gazed long at it, and then said, — " I don't
know much about drawing ; but I should say there was
great lalent here. I can't think how she should be able
to do this ice."

"Athout she minds about the ice comun in, years ago,
when she was a little thing, about so big as Janie."

" It's wonderful, really ! " said the clergyman. " This
vessel going off, and the man left behind."

Skipper George said, in a low voice, —

"Ay, sir, that vessel never corned home again ! Nor
no word ever comed of her ! — Will 'ee plase make a
pr'yer, sir ? " added the father.

All kneeled down by the fireside ; the mother crying ;
the father full of woe as he could hold, but move full of
faith and will, and little Janie holding fast in both hands
some stones with which she had been at play.

The pastor prayed for help to find the lost child, and
for grace to do and bear God's will, and to learn meekly
His lesson.

" Would n' 'ee be plased to set fast, sir ? " asked the

SEARCHING STILL.

151

fisherman, as his Pastor moved to go. " Well, sir, wc
shall be })rou(l to see 'ee again ; and — it comes heavy to
bear ; but we'll do our best, wi' God's help."

The sturdy man then followed silently to the outside
of the house, and then, lowering his voice, said, —

" I've abin to B'y-IIarbor, sir, an' I've abin to Brigus
but there's nawthun, sir ! "

" By land?" asked Mr. Wellon.

" 'Is, sir, an' put my poor ol' sorry face into amany,
many houses — but they were kind, sir, they were all
kind, sir. They sid I was heavy hearted, an' they were
very pitiful over me."

" Why, you've been forty miles ! " said Mr. Wellon,
rather to himself. " It must be ; besides being out all
night. You must take rest. It's a duty."

" 'Is, sir, an' to-morrow 's Sunday, and even when the
Lord was dead, they w'ited an' ' rested on the Sabbath-
day, according to commandment,' afore ever they 'd 'balm
'E's blessed body. There isn' e'er a thing to be doned
now, sir, that I knows, an' I m'y as well rest bumbye,
an' ef I can't, mubbe, get sleep right aw'y, I can pr'y
for un, however."

"And good days will come, I hope, shortly."

"Ay, sir, they '11 come," said Skipper George. " They
'11 come ! "

How far ahead he looked, he gave no sign; but he
spoke confidently.

"An' I know she'll find home," he said, " ef she never
comes to this place no more, sir. There's others have
agot sore hearts, so well as we. That good lady that'a
loss'd 'er husband an' 'er child, takes stren'th, an' comforts
them that wants, an' I musn' give up."

Mr. Wellon pressed his hand and I'eft him.

ri-lt,^«ii:!l|i:'||

ir)2

Ti:.. NEW PRIKST.

As he came out upon the ridge from which he was to
go down to the road, his eye was caught by the flash of* a
white sail, and he sto{)[)ed to gaze.

It was the Spring-bird gliding fast by the land in her
way out to Bay-Harbor, from which she was to clear for
Madeira. A ship's silent going-fbrth is a solemn thing,
and to sad minds a sad one. There was silence too on
board the brig, in this case, in tribute to the j)revailing
sorrow of the little to\^^, and sl^e had no b^reamer or flag
flying at peak or truck.

Does the sea hold the secret ?

Along the wharves, along the little beaches, around the
circuit of the little coves, along the smooth or broken face
of rock, the sea, which '^f.nnot rest, is busy. These little
waves and ibis long swell, that now are here at work,
have been ere now at home in the great inland sea of
Europe, brr athed on by soft, warm winds from fruit-
groves, vineyards, and v/ide fields of flowers ; have
sparkled in the many-coloured lights and felt the trivial
oars and dallying fingers of the loiterers on the long
canals of Venice ; have quenched the ashes of the Dutch-
man'.- pipe, thrown overboard from his dull, laboring
treckschuyt ; have wrought their patient tasks iii the dim
caverns or the Indian Archipelago ; have yielded to the
little builders under \WRtec means and in.plements to rear
their towering alrar, — duelling, — monument.

These little waves hove crossed the ocean, tumblinj;
like porpoises at play, and taking on a savage nature in
the Great Wilderness, have thundered in clo.^e ranks and
countless numbers, against nian's floating fortre?: , have
stormed the breach and climbed up over the walls in the
ship's riven >Mde; have followed, howling and hungry as
mad wolveSj the crovrded rift; have leaped u{)on it,

y»^^)

SEARCHING STILL.

153

snatching off, one by one, the weary, worn-out men and
women ; have taken U[) and borne aloft, — as if on hands
and sliouhkfi's — the one chance human body that is brought
into land, and the long spar, from wliicii man's dangling
cordage wastes, by degrees, and yields its j)Iace to long,
green streamers much like those that clung to this tall,
ta[)er tree, when it stood in tlie northern forest.

These waves have rolhul their breasts about amid the
wrecks and weeds of the hot stn^am that comes up many
thousands of miles, out of tiie Gulf of Mexico, as the
great Mississi{)i)i goes down into it, and by and by these
waves will move, all numb and chilled, among the mighty
icebergs and ice-fields that must be brought down from
the poles.

Busy, wandering, reckless, heartless, murderous waves !
Have ye borne down into the ravening mouths of the
lower Deep, the innocent body of our missing girl, after
that ye had tossed it about, from one to another, un-
twining the long hair, one lock of which would be so dear
to some that live ; smearing the eyes that were so glad
and gladdening ; — sliming the

Oh ! is that body in the sea ?

There is more than one mystery in little Peter-
port.

' II

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151

THE NEW I'lilEST.

CHAPTER XVII.

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

.', IM

lie

HE pastor had had no time for Mrs. Barre, or
any thing but the search. That Saturday evening
lie and the constable sate together in consultation
in the former's study, putting together their information
and conjectures. Gilpin's sus{)icions had been aroused as
soon as his eye fell on the Prayer-book that he had se-
cured at Mr. Urston's ; and he had found, in the middle, a
book-mark bearing a drawing of a lamb, with the legend,
« I am the Good Shepherd," and the letters " L. B." in
delicate German text. This mark Miss Dare had already
recognized as one which she herself had given to Lucy
Barbury, since her sickness. On the inside of the cover,
however, was the name " Lucy Barbury " still legible,
from having been also written in German text, though
with a less practised hand. The latter had been iden-
tified by the mother as Lucy's own writing.

The present condition of the book, taken in connection
with Mrs. Calloran's conduct in regard to it, made it
probable that it was in her house that it had been given
to the fire.

Moreover she would not answer a plain question
whether she had seen the missing maiden since Friday
morning.

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LIIADS.

155

iden-

— "But sho contrived to t(!ll difTcront stories about the
Prayer-book," said the elergynmii ; " why shouldn't she,—
ir she liad oecjision, — about seeing Luey Harbury ? "

" Sometimes they won't lie to a straightforward ques-
tion ; and they'll lie fast enough, of their own tongue :
and then the priest was there that time, and he wasn't,
the other."

" You're too severe upon Ronum Catholics," said Mr.
Wellou, " Many of them art) much like our own people."

" Not upon her sort o' Roman Catholics," answered the
constable ; " I know 'em, sir, — too W(;ll."

" W(! seem to have traced her to just about that place,"
said Mr. Wellon, musing ; — " so far she seems to have
gone on her own feet, — and alone."

— "And there they picked her up, when she fell down,"
said the constabh^, " and then those nuns carried her off."

" What nuns ? "

" That Cap'n Nolesworth saw ; and this Yankee, — Mr.
Banks, they call un, sir, — he was prying about there, last
night, just when these nuns were going away from the
house. When he was telling his story he said they car-
ried something ; and so I followed un up. He couldn't
tell what it was, for the night was dark ; but there were
two or three women, and carrying something among 'em
down the Worrell, there, liiiing a stranger, he didn't
want to be brought in, he said ; 'twould knock up liis
busin(.*ss."

" It's a pity he hadn't helped carry her down, w bile he
was about it!" said the Parson; "and then we should
have had some better evidence."

" Then there's Ca[)'n Nolesworth knows what he's
about ; and he come right across their punt, and had a
gooc look at it, with his lantern. They pulled for dear

l.'M)

iiiK NKW ruiisr.

P^'Hi

liU» ; ImiI hi' :»\ i !»«'">< '•nn* Ih» >m\v '.oinrltotlv llw'\ writ*
lh»l«liM>i \i|v ThMl'n liow her «'M|» ;mi1 down iln re," con-

riuM'lrrjiviuinnvMSHtnwK with ( Jilpin't ^iMlnncnl. which
WM>* conlirm* (1. >^h".h(l\. h\ ihc li'w tii'cumslaiUMM and
(juMh oI thi' rn-^c wilhiii ihcif Knikwh'dijc.

" \\\\\," <;\\\\ hi', "there's tio piool', ;n»d who \\o \y)\\
Mippo'^i* is ;it th(> hoitotn ol' it r"

"I htdioxe (Jiinuw CmUoimh is. sit": Mini thMl piicsi,
KMlhor Nicholas. " Mi-. >N»'lIon smih'd. " And then
that u«>w piiC'l ju-t »(Mni\ij> hcfc I " cxclaiincd the con-
stahh>.

"It's ;» ' pt>pi>l\ ph)l.' with a \<MioramM<!" said (ho
l\uson : ' wiih priests .and nuns and :\\\. Ihil whal
.'dionld she Ao it lor ? and w h.al should the pri(<sls and
nnns ho eoneerned in i( for ? "

" \{ (iiannv I'.alloran irel a lair «'hanee al one ol' IMrs.
U;\rbnr\ 's dan«:hler-i. -r.y. and one that voniiii' Ihslon
>V!\s leavitijr iheir ]>rie'-thood lor. -sh«''d d«> it last «MUMii!,h,
sir. I'll ii'o h;ul. Sh«''d steal 'em lo make Komans of '«>m ;
Mud she'd steal her lo sr<M her ont o\ his way ; and the
|>ri«^sls at\d nuns \\ he ready enoiiirh lo lend ;» hand at.
ih.al work, and no mi-^tak*'. "Tw.as oidv t'other dav ihoro
>vas ih.at ea>(^ al hom(\ in l-.anea-hir*'."

"A\.hnl l.ney ean'l have conspired with ihem," said
llu^ Parson, npon whom (lilpin's eonvielions made somo
ini}>ressi«Mi ; -— " iT thert^'s any ihinj;- sure on (>ar(h I "

*' 1 i\-\n'l s;\y lor iliai. sir." said (tilpin : hnl then, cor-
reotinji himselT. «lid jn-li»v> \o l.ncy. wiihonl injnsliee to
his ar<:nmenl. "Oh no!" said he. " it' lliere's trntli (>»
o.'^rtli. slug's a-el it ; hnl she's been orazy. hy spurts, ever
pinoe she was sick, you know, sir."

" To bo snro," answerod the rnrson ; "hut sho hasn't

'0 to
\ on

NMIICII WAY SI'SI'H'IMN I,IAI»S. I.'i?

" Sn iIh'v inijilil, Mir, llicy mi^'Jil ; jii '( iis il liii|i|ii'iin|
ilinr wiiM muImmI^' willi l/iii'v, iiml iioliodv in iIh* wiiy, on
llic wlioli' piilli. 'I'lio nnn-i nrrr llino, nuy wuy, sir; ntol
Lncv U'lis down (line, .Icsso stiw lirr on llic roiid ; tiiid
IIhmo'm licr riMvor hook, — conii* oiil u' llio lioimo ; and llio
nuns I'liri iod Miunolliin^ down ; Mtid von loiiml licr <'ii|i
d«»wn ht'low : mid Micro wjh iIio one ('!i|/n Nolcsworlli
s{i\v in ilio |»niil," Miisworrd llio mnsiMl ir, Miininiiii^ ii|i,
vorv ('lV('fli>oly ; "iiml (JiMiinv ('iiIIoimii nrniid lo niiswrr,
till llio priost toM lior iiow ; iind doiiiji; licr worst not |i
lot inc lijivc tliMt Imok : niid lie liclpinjr licr,"

" Ilttw do yon niciin ' Icllinijr lici- liow In niiswcr?' "
" I Msks licr, ' lliivc yon seen Mr. ri>iilnny's diin;^lilci
Hine«» y(>s((>rd;iy iiKM-nin;:, ? ' lliiee liiiies; nii<l she pi '
oil* \yilli Irish pMhivcr; iiiid then he snys, 'yon i
keep \'in Nvniliiiii;, Min. (';illorMii ; yon enii tell w
yon know where she is;' :ind so she snys, liist ci

t IV. >. I .!.>••'< I IXltl' .UK- IIIOIW. lll'lll I l/ll..ttU Itlll..

niM n\r

needii'l.

whelhrr

'iion;;h.

lh(>

yon know where she is;' :ind so she snys, liist cn(»n;;h.
' No; I ilon't know, .'iny nun'o tliiin I knows wliert? the
Injins is;' or ' the wild liijins.'"

" Do von think yoinijx Urslon is concerned?"
" I don't think lie is, sir; he doesn'l seem likt^ it. lie
didii'l s(M'in to he one of 'cm Tollu'r djiy. lie's very much
cut np. Mild he's heen out mII ni;^lil ; hut. lliMt isn't mII.
When 1 sMW ihinijs lookiii;^ that wny, I llioii«i,lit I'd nwike
one ol" 'cm.'ii' I could, whil(> tliMt priest wms there; Miid
I ^ot one (Mr in Minoii;; 'em, lar enon;^li."

"The priest talked very seri(tns to the yonn^ mimii, and
said 'he wms s(»rr\' lor his disMppoiiitment ; it seemed m
v. li.'dion ol' (iod,' he said. 'Now he'd Iind he conldirt
S(M his heart on earthly ihiii"';- ; and the only way was to

1 ' 'i ■!

l| Ij,

1 ' 1

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1 ;

•;|

lif-

;■

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;

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i ■

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yiAl\

)

;

■;;

158

THE NIiW PKIEST.

fly to God while the wound was fresh ; to think of his
promises ; and to think what he'd cast away.' He said
' others had been through it ; ' (and it seemed as if he'd
cry, while he was about it ;) ' but,' he said, ' they'd found
the balm,' or ' the myrrh ' ; and then he came to busi-
ness, and told un ' to-niorrow was the very day for un to
go to St. John's ; and he'd go along with un, and there
was a glorious path for un.' Mrs. Calloran only vexed
un, with telling him how Protestants despised un."

" You listened to some purpose," said the Parson.

" Well, sir, I'd good reason."

"And how did he take it all ? "

" He told the priest ' he was sorry to disappoint un ;
but his iaind was made up, and he'd given over being a
priest ; ' and then there was a stir among 'em, and I come
away, and in two or three minutes the priest was riding
away home."

The clergyman pate a little while in thought, and then
said : —

" If they carried her away, it's a very strange thing !
There seems certainly a clue as fine as a spider's web,
leading to that suspicion."

" It looks as plain as a ship's wake to me, sir," said
Gilpin, his eye shining like the star that guides sailors on
a trackless sea.

" But what can we make of it, beyond suspicion ?"

" If we had a magistrate that " the constable began,

in a tone of small observrmce towards the greater official
under or around whom he moved.

" We've got a magistrate," said the Parson, smiling
taking the words as if there had not been a " that " at
their end ; " and we must get all this before him. Will
you go to Mr. Naughton, and tell him what you've seen

WHICH WAY SUSPICION LEADS.

159

k of his
He said
if he'd
'd found
to busi-
br un to
id there
y vexed

an.

)int un ;

being a

I I come

IS riding

ind then

thing !
ir's web,

ir," said
ailors on

in?"

began,
r official

smiling
hat" at
I. Will
ve seen

and heard ? and I'll make a memorandum of what we've
been over to-night, to serve, if there'.s occasion."

" And we'd better not talk, sir, I sup^Dse ? "

" Oh ! no. Is that INIr. Bangs, th»^ American, to be
had, if he's Avanted ? " asked Mr. Wellon.

" He's going to set yp a shop here, in fall, I believe,
sir. I shouldn't wonder if he'd gone down to Bay Har-
bor (whatever he's after) : — he asked me if I thought he
could do a little trading with the priests, there. — And
Cap'n Nolesworth's at Bay Harbor, by this time."

" Well, then, we can't do more, now, than pray. If
anything twns up, to-morrow, please let me know."
The constable had sometiiing more upon his mind ; and,
as he rose to go, said hesitatingly : —

"I suppose you heard about this noo priest, an' the
widow-lady, Mrs. Berry, sir?"

" I don't know," said the clergyman.

" There's stories going about the harbor that they've
had meetings down at some Roman's — in Mad Cove,
they say — and passed some high words. One of 'em seems
to have some sort of claim on t'other, or they're relations
or something. Some says it's about a great fortin ; that
he's her brother, and wants to get all aw^ay for his
church. (They say he looks like her.) I hears he got
into a great passion. — I don't believe very bad of un ;
an' Skipper George an' everybody gives un a good name
for being civil-spoken an' kind."

" You're right, Charles ! " said the Parson. " Good-
night ! "

A v^^eek's work was done : a heavy burden lay over !

1 I

■/I I.

1 ■■ ♦

P|fr"PiF

IGO

THE NEW PRIEST.

S! Ill

CHAPTER XVIIL

THE DAY FOR REST.

\\ ,.| > «.'

i-T""!!!'

N the next day, Sunday, it may well be thought
that the church showed signs of general sorrow ;
tidings had come from every quarter, and nothing
could be heard of Lucy Barbury. Before the flag (which
had not, that morning, flung its white cross abroad upon
the fresh air, but had hung heavily) was hauled down,
the little parties, by land and water, gathered, anxious
and agitated-looking, instead of wearing the Day's peace;
and silently and straight down the road, with his broad
head bowed, came Skipper George, without his wife, and
escorted by Jesse Hill and Isaac MafFen on the one side,
and Mr. Skilton (the second smith) on the other. Sev-
eral women, of his family and neighbors, followed him in
silence. As the brave man came to the point at which
he was to turn up from the road to the church-door, he
gave one glance over to the sea, and one over the land ;
then, as if forgetting himself, took oflT his hat in the open
air. At the instant, every man's head was silently un-
covered, and every woman dropped a silent courtesy.

It had been custoniary to chant the Canticles and
Doxology, as well as to sing the Metre-psalms and
Hymns ; but this day, the chief bass (Skipper Charlie)
was not in his place. Mr. Piper's violin, — which, for love

iii

THE DAY FOR REST.

161

and
and
larlie)
3r love

of tho owner, a good-natured Irislitnan, was allowed to
set the pitch and go with the voices, — did not appear ;
and (what was the great want) there was no heart for
singing. Even the Clerk, Mr. Williamson, trying to
lead, broke down. The answering of the people was
more full than usual ; and when the priest, at the peti-
tion " to succor, help, and comfort all that are in danger,
necessity, and tribulation," added, " especially George
Barbury, our brother, and his family," thus bhiding their
special sorrow to the prayer of millions, and of ages, the
great voice of the congregation trembled ; and again, at
the next petition, for them that travel by sea or land,
there was a general feeling, as if a wind from the dec^p
Bay or dreary Barrens had blown in. So morns went by
at church, sadly. Tlie INIinister preached, out of his heart,
about the Lord's having all in his hand. .

After the forenoon service, Jesse edged himself up to
the Minister, and said : —

" 'Ee could n' 'ave e'er a funeral sarvice, could 'ee, sir,
for Uncle George, to comfort un up, a bit ? "

Gilpin was near enough to hear, (indeed, good Jesse
looked aside to him, during the saying of it, for his suf-
frage,) and the eye of the constable twinkled ; but he did
not smile at the honest fellow's mistake.

" Please God, we may find her alive yet, Jesse," said
he.

" I wish we mought, indeed, Mr. Gulpin," returned the
fisherman ; "but I don't think jt."

Isaac Maffen shook his head, in melancholy confirma-
tion.

" You won't forget Mrs. Barre," said Miss Dare, to the
Minister, when she had opportunity.

Gilpin followed the magistrate, Mr. Naughton ; and,

162

THE NEW PRIEST.

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having come to speech with liira, began to lay his case
before him.

" It '11 be cleared up, Charles," said the magistrate, sen-
tentiously, by the time they got to the solid part of it.

" Not without taking the law to it, I'm thinking, sir,"
said Gilpin.

'- You couldn't do any thing about it on Sunday," an-
swered the stipendiary.

" It isn't a civil prossess, you know, sir ; it's criminal."

" That depends upon what it's called," said the magis-
trate ; " but I'm obliged to go away, as soon as possible,
out of the harbor. If there's any thing to be done, I'll
attend to it when I come back. I shall act deliberately.'*

So saying, the Stipendiary hurried through his own
gate.

Gilpin looked iifter him, a moment, witli a curious twist
on his lips ; then, nodding his head, as if he knew of
another way, went up the liarbor. Mr. Naughton's house
was apart from the road, and near the cliff on which the
flagstaff stood.

The constable passed the drung * that led up to his
forge and dwelling, and keeping on, to Mr. Worner's,
knocked at the door, and asked for Miss Dare.

He took off his hat, and scratched his head with his
forefinger, in the presence of the young lady ; and then,
having obtained leave to speak with her a moment, on
important business, he changed her astonishment into
extreme agitation, by sf^ying, " I've come about Skipper
George's daughter, please. Miss Dare."

" What of her ? — Is she found ? — Is any thing heard
of her ? *' wshe cried, turning paler than ever, but keeping
command of herself

* Narrow way: Old Kiiglish from tlio same source as throng.

an-

THE DAY FOR REST.

163

" Not exactly, Miss ; but there's some track of her,
I believe. I taink there's some living, and no great
ways off, that could tell about her, if they were made
to."

" Well, IJfeinow you've got plenty of honest hearts and
hands to help you : but if money is needed, or will do
any thing, don't spare it. It won't be wanting : — and do
follow out the least thing, won't you ? I wish I could do
something more about it."

" I'll try and do my [)art. with a heart and a half," said
the constable ; " and there is something, Miss, if you'll
excuse me for thinking of it ; — it's a little uncommon,
I know. If you'd only just please to speak to Mr.
Naughton, and get un to do soraetliing."

" But I'm not the person," sjiid the young lady, " to
speak to Mr. Naughton about his duty."

" It looks strange, I know," answered the constable ;
" but Mr. Naughton isn't like everybody. I've been to
un about it, and I couldn't do any tiling with un. * He
hadn't time : he was called away.' I knows un. He'll
be out o' the harbor in half an hour."

" But Mr. Wellon would be the proper person to speak
to him."

" It's a busy day with his reverence," said Gilpin ;
" and besides. Miss, there's nc time to lose j he'll be along,
directly."

" But what am I to try to do ? "

" To get him to take up some parties that ai'e sus-
pected, please. Miss Dare."

" What ! not of murderinij her ! "

" No, Miss ; I don't know what's been done to her."

" Well, I don't want to think about it, till we know
something more ; but if I can do any thing, I'm sure I

J!)

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101

TlIK NKW PKIKST.

will, willi all my licurt, nM you say. Ccrtuinly I'll spoa!:
to INIr. Niniiilifoti. il'lliMl's tlio cmso."

" riiMuU v<>«.!. Miss; ntid III p) onl llio bnck wny, if
you please ; lie nuisln'l know (IimI I wm- here."

Aflcr Ihc coMslMltlc's (l(>|)!irlMi'«', Miss Dan^ stutioiied
luM'sclf uear llio ixardcii ftMU'c by llic road, juul pn'srutly
the solid, flat lioi'sc-lijunp, which hrin^s lo i\u\ mind im-
s!iuo*ividy lh(> imaire oi" a man viAw^ and rallin<]j in tho
saddle, on a V( n hard and sl(>\v-j:;oin<jj boast, (•.•imo to her
ear. Alter a iiine. the horse and his rider made (heir jip-
p«>arane<\ the laKer seeminu; lo be u;e(lin;j:; on taster than
the t'ornier. e\e(«pt Ihal In; nev<'r ixot over his hejul.
Which saw Miss Dan* Urst, (lor, though iheri^ was somo
shrnbbery. there w<M'e no lre(>s of jiny eonseqneneo on
INIr. Worner's ])i'emises,) eatinol ho said; the ('IVeets on
(\'ich were simnllaneous. JNIr. Nan^hton did not let it
aj>pear that he was conscious of her presence, unless in-
\oiuiitarilv, by blushini; and lookini;^ very deliberately to
each side of the road, and by showy horsemanship. The
horse (called " Donk" for his tail) seemed to think that
a little siilliui;' miiiht. be useful and ornamental, and mi<;ht
brinij them up to the fence, where the youuir lady stood ;
and th(Mi he could nibble the i^rass, or shut his eyes and
meditate, while the two human beings amused themselves
with conversation.

The beast siu'ccinled : Mr. Naughton put the best grace
upon it that he could, and sat up on his steed, a short
man, with small eyes an<l large whiskers.

Miss Darin's uildrt'ss to (he ma«;istrate ixa.ve no evidcMice
of her having seen anything ridiculous in his [)rogress.

*' You're not going away just now, of all times, Mr.
Naughton, surely," said she, " when you're the ouly mag-
istrate ? "

TMK DAY FOR UKST.

Ifif)

Mce

" Am 1 Ut ll)ilt(!r niyscilf, then, tlint my going or stay-
ing m of Jiny coiiHCfiMcncci lo INIiHi l);ir(5?''

" ('Ortniiily ; .'uid to rvoryWody in tli(^ |)l!ic(\''

" I icnnw a niJigi.slriiti! wiis of Honio littlo conscquonco
to tii(^ Ht!it(! and to tlio coMunmiity," returned Ik;.

"Tlierii Ciin Im^ only oiu^ feeling in the eoinniunity,"
said the young lady, as Mr. Nangliton drew suddenly up
the roin, to resume ills [irogress.

Animadon s(iein(!d to be dilfused through the body of
the quiescent Donk by ele(;trieity, (though not so fust as
lightning,) for the memorable tail went up by a jerk, like
that of th(i more intelligent niember, to whieli the l)ridle
was attaeluMl, though with a slight intxirval, Mr. Naugh-
ton, this time, attem[)ted no eanicolingor eaprieoling, but
studied to combine the several wills of man and beast on
one contimious (and pnUty rapid) motion. If he did not
at once nor entirely succeed, even with frequent sharp
8[>urring, Miss Dan^ was not there to see.

At Evensong, the magistrate was in his place at
church ; half an hour afterward, having briefly listened
to Charles Gilpin, he issued the decided order: —

"You'll bring tho.se parties before rae by ten o'clock

to-morrow mornmg

" I shall want a warrant, you know, sir," said Gilpin.

Whether the stipendiary had forgotten, or wished to
consult his "Justices' Assistant," he maintained his dig-
nity, and, at the same time, the symmetry of his arrange-
ments.

" You'll call for that at ten o'clock this evening,"
said he.

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THK NKW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XIX

UHPECTED PERSONS.

E pass t<' the next day, the vane of suspicion
ha\i g, w''^ n twenty-four hours, (tliough no
man could say diut any wind had been blowing)
got round, and pointed straight to Mr. Urston's house.

On the Sunday afternoon, young Urston had been at
church, and, after service, Skipper George had called the
young man to himself, and walked with him quite over to
the Backside. He was not suspected ; but rumors had
got about that tln^ee females went away in the punt, in
which only two had come.

On this Monday morning, that sound so interesting to
boys and men, of hammer ringing upon anvil was not
heard at Skipper Charlie's smithy ; nor that other, of
blended human voices, telling, asking, speculating upon
the news or gossip of the place ; for here, where are no
barbers shops or coiFee-houses, every thing that is to be
told and heard is brought to the smith's forge, and, be-
ing heated hot, is laid upon the anvil, pounded, turned,
and pounded into a final shape. The smith and con-
stable himself, — whose manifold name of Gilpin, Galpin,
Gulpin, might remind one of the derivation, Nipkin —
napkin — diaper — draper — tailor, or the more classic
dlmmj^ — 7ti^ — pax — JJUJC — fUCf)JS — fox — was, at about
eight o'clock, walkmg quickly, with several companions,

RTISPECTKD PKKSONS.

1G7

along a path that led from near his house downward on
the liacksidf. With him were William Frank, commonly
called iiilly ">ow, Zebcdee Marchaut, Natlum Marchant,
Jesse Hill, and Isiuic INTafFen, who had severally (except
t!ie last two) fallen in behind him at different pomts,
like the involuMtia'y followers in some of the German

" Can 'ee walk in ef the door shouldn' be open, Skip-
per Charlie ? " asked Billy Bow, who was considered a
gi'eat humorist by his neighbors.

" It'll go hard if I can't get into e'er a housr ^hat's got
a door or window, open or shut," answered th" oo; table.

" 'E's got to keep the king's peace," said Mil) Jow ;
" an' I'm afeared 'e'll get it broke into a goo(' liin pieces."

" Ef the constable kicks up e'er a rout, l^oys, ' said one
of the others, "'e'v-^ got a good many cr- l \u tow, that
can keep un from hurting 'isself."

" It would'n' be good subjecks, an' show respec' to the
king, ef we didn' favor 'e's constables, after 'e's abin and
tookt the trouble to appoint 'em, an' 'e's trusty an' well-
beloving yeoman, Mr. Charles Gulpin, petic'lar ; we mus'
give 'em a chance to do their dooty, 'ee knows, Skipper
Charlie," said another of the posse comitatus.

" Let me ketch ye givin' me a chance, (without there's
good cause for it,) and I'll do my dooty on you, very
quick," returned Skipper Charlie.

With such simple attempts at wit, did the quiet and
good-natured Newfoundlanders follow their " officer ; " and
with such downright authority did the officer maintain the
dignity of the law and the constabulary. Other topics
also occupied them : Jesse was engaged in literary criti-
cism ; having listened at the window of the Wesleyan
Meeting-house, at a funeral, and then given, to a Wes-

I i'

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1^8

TTIF, NEW PRIKST.

leyan friend who asked it, the opinion he was now repeat-

mg:-

" ' Abner,' I says, * there was text out of Scri{)ture,
sure,' I says, ' an' a little about how we ought to do,' I
says; *jus* like anybody; an' then varses an' scraps o'
poultry, an' such ; an' then more, agen, an' so on ; but 'e
wasn' a proper-growed sarmun, at all,' I says ; ' not what
I calls proper-growed.' So then he couldn' say nothin' ;
when I telled un that, 'e couldn' "

" Come, Jesse, he couldn't answer you" said the con
stable. " Now, you half, go across here, — (1 don't want
any more ; if any comes, send 'em back,) — and, when ye
git within hail o' the house, bring up, all standing, and
lay to ; an' don't stir tack nor sheet, till I tells ye. They'll
be just about coming in from the water."

So — giving his orders, like a good general, in his peo-
ple's famihar tongue — Gilpin went on with the other half
of his followers. Presently, he sent off a second detach-
ment, with like instructions. While still a good way off
the place, he and his companions were astonished at see-
ing in front of them, going fast in the same direction, the
tall, strong figure of the bereaved father. As Skipper
George went into the house, they kept close to him.

"I'd best call himself," said Mrs. Calloran ; "he's just
at the Worrell, beyont."

" Ay ! call un, please," said the constable ; adding, as
she passed out of hearing, " but, if anybody knows any
thing, you're the one, I'm thinking."

The father, while they waited, stood with his face
against his hand upon the wall ; his grizzled locks looking
so innocent and touching, that, as William Frank said
afterwards, " a body could sca'ce look at un wi' dry eyes ;
it was so feelun, like."

SUSrECTKI) PKIISONS.

169

s just

»S'

any

face
oking
: said
eyes;

Mr. Urston came in very frankly, sliowing no surprise
at the number of persons present, and answered, before
he was asked the question, " that lie did not know where
Mr. Barbury's daujjhter was ; he wished he did ; he
wouldn't keep it to himself loniij."

Skipper Georj^r', who liad turned roun<l at the sound
of footsteps, sarik heavily down into a chair. It was
evident, frorri the effect of these words upon his feelings,
that, in spite of himself, he had not only feared but hoped
somethlr.g from this visit, and that the hope was now
smitten within him.

" Look to un, some of ye ! " cried Gilpin. " Handle
un gently."

" N'y lovies," said Skij>per George, catching his
breath, as if he had been through a severe struggle in the
waves, " thankee ! Whatever was o' George Barbury, —
thank God ! thank God ! — it bides here yt ; on'y two
tarrible heavy blows on the same place, — that's lossing
'er before, an' now, agen, lossin' that false, foolish hope, —
have abrought me down. I'm a poor, sinful Christen ;
but I am a Christen, an' I can get up. — I believes 'ee,
Mister Urston ; I'm sorry to trouble 'ee ; but 'ee knows
I've alossed mi/ child/ Some thinks 'ee'd want to turn
her from her religion ; but, ef 'ee had e'er a chance, *ee
wouldn' make a cruel trial of her dear, tender heart, nor
her faith in the dear Saviour she loved an' sarved sunce
ever she knovved 'E's blessed name ! Would 'ee ? "

There was something very affe(;ting in this speech and
the father's tears that accompanied it.

Mr. Urston said that " if ever he should hear of her, or
find her, or any trace of her, the father should hear of it
as soon as he could get the word to him ; " and he said it
with much feeling. "They were of a different religion,

n 1

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170

THK NEW I'RJEST.

perliaps, but not of a diflRn'ont nature. lie felt for liim
from tlie bottom of his lieurt."

"Ilor faltli'.s nothing; that can be turned about," s.-nd
James Urston. "It would j^o through tire unhurt."

At this, Mrs. Calloran made some reuiark, aside which
could not be overheard. 8ki|)j)er George thanked the
young man, and rose to go, declining, kindly, the hospit-
able invitations urged upon him.

" Go with un, Jesse," said Skipper Charlie ; and Jesse
and his adherent went out with him.

" Now, I've got a bit of disagree'ble dooty to perform,"
said the constable, as he proceeded quickly to lay his hand
upon one after another of those present, and to arrest
them.

" This is ray Warrant," said he. " I'm doing my dooty,
and I'll do it as civilly as I know how. I'm commanded
to have the bodies of Bridget Calloran, and Thomas
Urst'^n, and James, ' before me, the worshipful Ambrose
Naughton, Esquire, Stipendiary INIagistrate, &c. &c. ; as
witness my hand and seal of office.' "

Gilpin's proceeding astounded Mr. Urston and his son,
and was very exciting to all present ; to whom capiases,
and warrants, and writs, are strange things. Even the
smile with which Gilpin (who v/as more familiar with
such things — theoretically, at least — ) read Mr. Naugh-
ton's indirect assertion of his official dignity, did not take
from the excitement.

" Sure, an' is this English law, thin, that they brag
about .'' Bring up their bodies to examine thim ! Kill
thim first, an' try thim after ! " exclaimed Mrs. Callo-
ran. " Is this the way it is wid yes ? an' is this
Protestant justice ? Sure, it's small justice ye can do

SUSri'CTKD PKHSOXS.

171

>»

an a rornips ! And do you raly mane to kill us, thin,
ar what ? "

Mrs. Calloran was ready to contend with lior tonjjue,
as in the encounter of two days hcfore ; but a look from
Mr. Urston, — who acted and s[)oke with a self-possession
and dijijnity that contrasted stroiijj;!y with his surround-
ings, — put her to silence.

" He could not understand this most extraordinary pro-
ceeding," he said, "and knew no more of 'abducting or
carrying away* Mv. liarbury's daughter, than the father
did ; but would make no resistance to a legal warrant."

For Mv. Jiarbury's sake, he begged that his premises
might be thoroughly searched. The constable complied ;
but the search found nothing.

INIrs. Calloran's submission in Mr. Urston'a presence,
could not prevent her crying out at this point, —

" Will ye sind for the praste, thin ? Sind for the
praste ! There's Father Ignashis is at Misther O'Rourke'8
beyant ; they'll niver deny us the sacramints from our
own clargy ! Will ye sind for the praste r "

" May be we'll have to send for them bimebye," said
Gilpin aside. He then comforted Mrs. Calloran with an
assurance, " that she should hang like a Christen, if she
was found guilty."

The preparations for going were soon made ; the con-
stable assuring his prisoners that, at any rate, they could
come I'ome a bit after the examination, even if the magis-
trate ijl.ould commit them. So they set forth for the wor-
shipful niiigistrate's presence.

One after another of Gilpin's former escort made his
appearance by the way. Jesse Hill, also, and Isa'tc
Matfen reappeared.

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172

THE NEW PRIEST.

ill

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Mr. Urston coinpliinented the constable upon his p:en-
eralship ; but assured him iliat he dichi't want so much
hel n.

"It's good to have enough of a good thing," said the
constable, glancing with his one eye over his troops.
" William, you take command o' these limbs o' the law,
will ye? Keep about two or three cables' length astern,
if ye know how much that is ; or as much more as ye
like."

So Billy Bow took charge of the pos^e, except Jesse
and Isaac (who, with the constable, made one for each
prisoner). These attached themselves to the immediate
escort, and were not meddled with. Jesse and Isaac
were two important witnesses.

Near the bush, from behind which Jesse had seen his
apparition come forth, the new Priest was lingering to
meet the approaching party. Jesse, at sight of him,
bristled, a good deal hke a sturdy mastiff, and Isaac felt
contagious animosity. Mrs. Calloran expressed herself by
tongue.

" Don't look at us, yer riverence. Father Ignatius," she
said, though he could not hear her, and could only have
seen the zealous and eager courtesy that she dropped,
afar ofr"; " don't look at the way they treat us for being
Catholics."

" You may as well keep a stopper on your tongue,
while you're my prisoner," said Gilpin, peremptorily.
" I've heard a good name of this gentleman ; and I don't
want to bring un into trouble for meddling with an officer
in the execution of his warrant."

Father Debree stood quite unmoved ui the e^'identIy
hostile expression of the escort ; or, at least, if not un-

il yn

SUSPECTED PEKSONS.

173

moved, his face did not lose any thing of its very hand-
some openness and dignity. His manner, however, was
agitated.

He sakited the prisoners and conf.tahle, and even Jesse
and Isaac, who looked gruff and implacable, exceedingly,
and scarcely returned the salutation. The constable,
though not cordial or over-coui'teous, kept himself from
showing any active dislike. The priest addressed him in
a very prepossessing voice, —

" I think you're the con.^table, — Mr. Gilpin, — are you
Dot ? "

" I'm constable, sir, for want of a better," said Skipper
Charlie ; " and blacksmith, too."

" May I have a moment's conversation with you ? "

" Not about my prisoners ; I'm going with 'em to the
magistrate's. You c- . pj along, sir, if you please," said
Gilpin, but falling, at the same time, in tiie rear.

" You mistake me," said the Priest ; " I've no wish to
interfere between you and your prisoners. If I could
be of any servj e, in a i)ro[)er and lawful way, to any
one whose friend I ought to be, I'm sure you wouldn't
blame it ; tut I want to ask if you have found any
thing to throw a light on Skipper George's daughter's
fate?"

" I hope we shall find out about it," said the constable,
ambiguously.

"Are these prisoners arrested on suspicion of being
connected with it ? "

" It'll appeal on their examination, sir," answered
Gilpin.

" I don't \vish to ask any improper vjuestion ; but I
know the father, and 1 know her, and I know them, and
feel very mud interested; — I ask as a I'riend."

( ;

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174

THE NKW PRIEST.

Gilpin's one sharp eye had been fixed on tlie speaker's
face.

•• I don't think it was any friends have made way with
her," said he, and, bowing, moved his company on.

iii

iker's
with

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

175

CHAPTER XX.

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION Fi;OM WHICH SOMETHtNG

APPEARS.

)HE magistrate's house, to the party now ap-
proaching it, looked as a house might look, which,
built in very ungainly style and of no large dimen-
sioui?, was dignified by its association with the magistracy,
and now clothed in all the awfulness of an official want
of animated life. Not much impression seemed to settle
upon " Mr. Gulpin," or his prisoners, who walked, with
little apprehension, up to the front door; unmindful how
the gravel-stones were scattered from their heels ; but to
the valiant Jesse and the valiant Isaac an awful figure of
spectral personation of Authority or Infliction seemed to
possess the gate and plant its shadowy terrors directly in
the way. They drew off to each side ; accounting for
their movements by the remark : " He don't want none
of we yet, I don't suppose, do 'e ? "

On the arrival of a second squad, however, the first,
as if they had received a sudden summons, anticipated
the new-comers by a hasty mov«'ment, which brought
them to the door in time to mnke their way into the
kitchen ; wliile their ofllcial leader and his captives went,
under the guidance of Mr. Nanghton's maid-of-all-work,
into the presence of tlic magistral''; if presence it could

f- i

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176

THE NEW I'KlEbT.

be called, where he sate with liis back broadly towards
them.

" Please your worshipful," said the usheress, " it's INIr.
Gulpin, sir; wi' some that 'e've caressed, most like, sir."

" Directly ! " answered the official voice ; which then
proceeded to read in a low tone, and hastily, out of souk;
book before him, " ' both houses of parliainont, and ' — I
must look at that again ; seven hundred and twenty-
seventh page."

Meanwhile, the constable leaving his charge, for a mo-
ment, standing at the stipendiary's back, went out long
enougii to give a message, of which the last words were
heard, as he enforced theia : —

— " And mind ye, Jesse, bring un along : don't come
without un ; and come back as quick as you can."

The ermine, or other fur of the magistrate, set itself
up at this, and he intimated to his subordinate that 'order
and silence were necessary at that investigation.' — With
a large dignity, he invited Mr. Wellon, who was entering,
to a seat.

Having, at length, received the constable's return, he
proceeded to business by ordering that officer to swear
the prisoners at the bar. Gilpin looked, with twinkling
eye, at his prisoners, and then at the magistrate : —

" What'U I swear 'em to, Mr. Nanghton ? " he asked.

"There's a copy of the Holy Evangelists here," said
the stipendiary.

" I can find Bibles fast enough, sir : but they're not
witnesses."

" I may ask them some questions and desire their an-
; wers to be under the solemn sanction of an oath," an-
swered the ma«rit*trate ; but when Mr. Urston had the
9^rPAi Vohirnc held out to him, he decidedly objected ;

id.
I stiid

not

an-

the

ted ;

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

177

insisting th:it if he and ♦he others were there as prison-
ers, they \vere not tliere as witnesses ; and desiring that
the accusation might be read, and the witnesses exam-
ined.

The magistrate assured him, with dignity, that that was
not the regular order of judicial proceedings, but th:.*; he
would waive the point.

Having, in his own way, made the prisoners acquainted
with the charge, he said, " There must be a record of the
proceedings of this court ! Mr. Williamson, you will act
as clerk. Constable, qualify Mr. Williamson, and sum-
mon the vitnesses."

The constable having qualified the clerk, called " Jesse
Hill!" but tliere was no answer; and he called Jesse
Hill again, and again with no answer.

" I sent him after Mr. 13ank>," explained Gilpin.

" S(niding one witness after another is quite irregular;
I trust that it will not occur again. It will be my duty
to suspend the proceedings until }0U can produce Mr.
Hill, or Barbury."

At this moment, Mr. Naughton noticed Fath<r Debree
near the door, attended by a shuHling of feet and a low
buzzing of the waiting public. The magist ite witii
dignity invited him to a seat, but the other referred
standing. Mv. W^ellon attenipted conversati< with his
new neighbor, but found him this day so r«-erved or
preoccupied as to give little encouragement :o the at-
t('mi)t.

Mr. Wellon, during the absence of the » tn -table, was
entertained by the stipendiary with an argument for
having a " lychnoscoi)e " introduced, as a sacred accessory,
into the new chancel of the chin-eh ; the earnest advocate
for ecclesiological development claiming thn/ the thing

!i M

^:i

178

THE NEW PRIEST.

was so old that its very object and purpose were entirely
unknown.

Gilpin, as he returned, with Jesse (and Isaac) behind
him, said, in an under voice, " I told un not to come with-
out Mr. Banks ; an' so he stuck to hi^ orders. I found
un sitting on one rock and Ir^aac Maffen on another,
neither one of 'em savin' a word."

Tiu Btipendiary now crowned his brow with the awful
rigors of justice once more, and sat as the chief figure of
the scene. The witness, having been sworn, was ques-
tioned : —

" Mr. Barbury, proceed. Are you a witness ? "

" Is, sir, ef it's wantun, I'll tell what I knows."

The noise of heavy shoes on the feet of those of the
public furthest back in the entry, testified to the unabated
interest with which Jesse's story was expected.

" What's your name ? is the first question."

Jesse M'as redder than usual ; but he saw his way, and
gladly opened his mouth.

" Oh ! 'ee wants it that w'y, do 'ee, sir ? * N or M '
is what it says."

" Ha ! you're not much acquainted with legal proceed-
ings," said the magistrate, throwing a sentence loaded
with about tlie usual amount of official wit, of about tlie
usual quality, and glancing at Mr. Wellon to see if he
took the joke.

"■ What is your name ? that's all," said he again, to tite
sim[)le-minded testifier.

"Jesse Barbury's my name, sir. I sposed 'ee knowed
that, sir ! "

" The Law knows nothing, Mr. Barbury. Our infor-
mation is from the evidence. You will proceed with your
^to^y, Mr. Barbury."

lilt

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATIOX.

171)

Mr. Barburj procecdtMl as follows, the innjiistrate os-
tensibly iK'glecting to listen, and studiously, with much
flutter of leaves, comparing one place with another in his
great book.

"I was aw'y over, t'other side, a-jiggin squids, I was;
and Izik Mafl'en was along wi' I ; and 1 says to un, ' Izik,'
I says, ' 'ee knows Willum Tomes,' I says, ' surely.' ' Is,
sure,' 'e says, ' I does,' to me, agen. ' Well, Izik,' I says,
' did 'ee hear, now, that 'e 've jdossed 'e's cow ? ' I says."

The magistrate oificially cleared his throat of some
irritation ; the Parson wiped his face with his handker-
chief, a circumstance that seemed to have an encouraging
effect upon the witness. He went on : —

" So Izik 'e says to I agen, ' No, sure,' 'e says, ' did un,
then, Jesse ? ' 'Is, sure,' I says, ' 'e've alossed she, surely.'
"With that 'e up an' says to I, 'A losi^ is i loss, Jesse,' 'e
says. ' That's true,' I says."

This moral reflection brought the Parson's handker-
chief suddenly to his face again. The constable received
the saying with less self-control, though it was as true as
any sentence of the Philosophers. William Frank, who
was further off, commented : " Wull, wisdom is a great
thing ; it's no use ! " — Jesse continued.

" ' Izik,' I says to un, agen, ' Izik,' I says, ' do 'ee think,
now, would n' the squids do better a little furderer up ? '
I says. With that we takes an' rows up tow'rds River-
head, a bit. Wull, after bidin' there a spurt, I axes Izik
what e' thowt sech a cow as that mijifht be worth. I

says

"You must remember, Mr. Barbury," interposed the
Stipendiary, " that the time of a magistrate is valuable,
not to speak of the time of the others that are here."

" Be 'e, now, sir ? " said the poor fellow, getting abashed,

i «; (S

in)' I

I 1

180

THE NEW PRIEST.

r i

" so 'e must b(;, surely ; that's a dear case. Tliat's a'most
all I've agot to i<'y, sir."

"" Be<rin just where you're going to knock off, Jesse,"
siiiggcsted the constable.

" Wull, Mr. Gilpin, I were goun to tell about what I
sid myself."

'' That's the very thing," said Mr. Naughton ; " no
matter what you said, or what was said to you, you know."

With these directions, the witness paused a little, hand-
ling his sou'wester (hat).

" Whereabouts was we, Izik ? " he asked of his adju-
tant.

" 'Ee was lalkun about the cow, Jesse, 'ee was," an-
swered Isaac, anxious that Jesse should do justice to
himself.

" Wull, sir." Then the straightforward witness for the
Crown began : " I was jest a sayin to Izik, I was "

"Your observations and those of your companion (or
fi'iend) are of comparatively little consequence, Mr.
B;.r])ury," said the magistrate, who must have had a
sta«i(lard for estimating speech.

" He means, he doesn't care what you and Isaac said,"
the constable prompted.

" 'Is, sir, surely. Wull, Izik says to I "

" Never mind the sayins, you know," persisted the con-
stable.

The witness looked like some animal in an inclosure ;
but he did hit upon the opening in it.

" Wull, sir, I sid a some'at all in white clothes a comin'
down Backside-w'y, (an' Izik Maffen, 'e sid the same, so
well ;) like a woman or a mayd, like, an' it comed right
along tuU it goed right aw'y, like, I dono how. I never
sid no more of it."

iin

^ght
!ver

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

181

" Did you Ftop to look ? "

" Is, sir, surely ; I says to Izik, ' Izik,' I says, as soon
as ever I could speak, — for I was dumb-foundered entirely,
first guun off, — ' Izik,' 1 says, ' Did 'ee ever see 'e'er a
angel, Izik ? ' * No, sure, Jesse,' lie says, ' how should
I ? ' ' WuU then,' I says, ' that was a some'at looked
veiy like one, seemunly, to my thinkin,' I says, ' O,
Loi'dy ! ' he says — that's his way, you know, sir, — ' what
'ave abecomed of 'un ? Jesse,' he says. ' Mubbe' I says,
' it was a goun somewhere, tull it sid we ; an' now it's
adone a doun of it, for a notion its ahnd I says ; sartainly
we tookt swiles, of a Sunday, last spring,' I says. ' Hows-
ever,' I says, ' mubbe we'd best knock otf now,* an' so we
done, sir, an' corned right home, sir, round the land-head.
That's all the witness I knows."

"You may retire, Mr. Barbury; (unless any of the
prisoners at the bar desire to question you.")

This privilege the prisoners did not claim.

There was a monstrous discharge of pent-up breaths at
the conclusion of this evidence, showing that a good
many of Jesse's friends were in the passage communicat-
ing between the kitchen and the parlor, who felt that
Jesse had more than satisfied the highest expectations
that could have been formed about his testimony, and had
contributed to the fund of information which the magis-
trate was gathering, as v^onderful an ingredient as any
that was likely to be produced that day. To his friends,
as he modestly withdrew from the blaze of importance,
he gave the intbrmation for the hundredth time, perhaps,
that it was Friday evening that this occurred ; that he
did not hail the apparition ; that it did not come within
hail; that "he shoulda't have a know'd what to say to
it, ef he'd a wan ted to."

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illti

1«2

THE NEW PRIEST.

" No more 'ee woultl'n ; that's a sure ca?<e," said Isaac
Maffon.

"Any evidence as to the cnHlihility of Mr. IJarbury
and his friend, will now be admissible," said the nia;;is-
trate, with dignity tempered by condescension.

" liaw ! II — " burst from the constable, very un-
timely ; a laugh cut off in the middle.

Mr. Wellon, at this point withdrew.

" Call the next witness ! " said the magistrate, waiving
further interruption.

" I dono how to call un, exactly ; I believe his name is
Nahthan ; but he's got an * L,' stuck before it, I thinks,
from the way he spoke it."

" L. Natlian Banks ! L. Nathan Banks ! " Gilpin

called, making his comment also. " Well, if that isn't a
way of writing a name ! I've sid L's and D's stuck at
the end, but sticking 'em at the beginning 's noos to
me."

Our readers have seen the world some days farther on
than Gilpin had, and are familiar enough with a fashion
of which Mr. Bangs, whose name happened to be El-
nathan, was quite innocent.

Mr. Bangs did not appear. " I thought surely he'd turn
up, as he did t'other night," said Gilpin. " I didn't tell
un he'd be summonsed ; but he's got a sharp nose.'*

" I understood that Mr. Wellon could testify," said the
stipendiary.

"Ay; but without Mr. Banks you can't weld the
evidence together, sir."

" You'd best summon him ; and that point can be de-
termined."

" 'E s just out in Tom Fielden's house," timidly sug-
gested Nathan, or Zebedee, or some one of them, not

n ■

IM:

AN ori'ICIAL EXAmNATION.

18a

til inking his voice fit to intrude in so awful a presence.
" 'E went there, however, a bit sunce."

" Present my t'oin[)linK'nt.s to him then, plea-^o, one of
you ; 'conipllnients of liis worship, the Stipendiary Magis-
trate, to the Reverend Mr. Wellon,' and ask if he'll
please to step here for a few njoments."

The " one " who undertook this errand must have had
an unusual number of feet, or of shoes upon his feet, if
one judged by the multitudinous clatter that followed.

The clergyman on coming in again, gave his short
account of finding the little cap at the Worrell ; and that
was all. The stipendiary spoke : —

"The evidence just received may go towards establish-
ing the nature of the crime by which Mr. Barbury's
daughter has been assailed; but, in my judgment, it would
be insufficient to fix the guilt with unerring certainty upon
any individual. — I shall now adjourn the court." As
for bail, he would say fifty pounds each, for Mr.
Ursfon and his son ; and would consider them respon-
sible for the appearance of Mrs. Calloran. " The day
to which he had adjourned the court," he said, " would
be appreciated by the persons chiefly interested ; it
was the fifth from that of the Exaltation of the Holy
Cross, and following that of St. Lambert, Bishop and
Martyr. In consideration of the result of the patient
and deliberate investigation which lad afforded hira
peculiar gratification, he would himself be responsible
for the usual costs."

Mr. Wellon offered himself as surety, and was at
once accepted.

Gilpin, on getting into the open air, as he did very
speedily, surrounded by the open-mouthed and eager
public, did not prevent himself from exclaiming, (while

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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Sciences
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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

^i'iii I

184

TH^ NEW PRIEST.

he looked flushed and chagrined,) " Well, if that isn't
law. with a tail to un ! "

An irreverent voice from among the public (strongly
resembling Billy Bow's) asserted that " The King (ef
'twas the king 'isself that doned it) might as well take a
sqjiid or a tom-eod for a magistrate, as some 'e'd aniade,"
and then proposed " three cheers for Mr. Charles Gulpin,
Constable of his majesty in this harbor and the neighbor-
ing parts."

The cheers were begun lustily, though at Gilpin's men-
tion of Skij)per George's loss, they broke off, and just as
they were dying away, the door of the Magistrate's house
opened, and he appeared, looking from side to side, and
with a modesty that sate gracefully upon dignity and
authority, said that " Words would fail him to express his
sense of the generous confidence of the people of New-
foundland ; that he was glad that his humble efforts had
met the applause of his fellow-subjects, which was next
to the award of an approving conscience. He looked
with confidence to the approval of his sovereign. In
conclusion, he begged all present to partake of a little
coffee, which he had given orders to have prepared."

" Three cheers for 'e's woshup, the Sti-pendery of
Peterport " ; cried the voice again, " and may the King
soon be so well plased to put un in a berth better fittun
to his debilities ! " Over this there was more subdued
laughter than shouting.

1^^

ffibwihMi

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WBB^^^

ilMi

Meantime the sad loss was just the same, and just where
it was. The noble old father whom they had seen bearing it
like a hero a few hours before, had carried home a heavy

AN OFFICIAL EXAMINATION.

185

load ; tho gentle mother was heart-stricken ; the whole
company of neighbors, the moment they got away from
the examination into the open air, — like tho?*e who had
not been at the Magistrate's, — bore a share of the sor-
row.

Billy Bow and otiiers staid to share Mr. Naiighton's
hospitality ; but Jesse Hill and Isaac MalFen went
silently away in one direction, vSkipper Charlie moodily
in another, and many more dispersed.

— " I wish they'd appoint Parson Wellon, as they do
at home," said Gilpin, as he went along by himself.

" And I hope they'll just let parsons be parsons, and
magistrates magistrates," said a voice behind.

" I didn't know your reverence was so near ; " said
the constable ; " but I wish *hey'd do something."

Captain Nolesworth, having had no opportunity of de-
livering his testimony, went back to Bay-IIarbor with
the intention of making his affidavit th(!re, before he
sailed. It was to be to the effect that he saw three females
in the punt leaving the Worrell ; that one of them was
supported as if sick, and that there seemed to be a fear
or strange unwillingness to be neared, and that a male
voice, (as he judged, of some one having authority,)
called out to " Keep on ! Keep on ! Don't stop ! "

This was to be the substance of the captain's evidence,
as he detailed it, walking up the harbor. He pronounced
at the same time an opinion upon the magistrate, some-
what enigmatical, as follows : —

" Mr. Naughton '11 live a good while, sir, I think, if he
doesn't meet with an accident ; that sort most generally
does."

The reader may take the captain's speculations as to
the stipendiary's longevity, at what he pleases, and may

1 i

18G

THE NEW PRIEST.

estimate the captain's evidence as he tliinks fit; but Capt.
Nolesworth himself gave his opinion, as follows : —

" Depend upon it, sir, if that punt is followed up, you'll
follow her up. I wish I could stay to see it out ; but I
expect to be off to-morrow. If I'd known enough tother
night, I'd have known more of that punt, one way or an-
other."

" It won't stop where it is," the clergyman said ; " the
authorities will take it up."

" It wont be amiss to lend a hand and help along
justice, I think, at any rate," said the captain.

The Parson turned aside and went in at Mrs. Barrels
house.

i'l!

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

187

CHAPTER XXI.

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

T v/as not long after the magistratual examination
was completed, before the ccastable made his ap-
pearance at Mr. Wellon's door, followed by Jesse
and a company.

" Please, Mr. Wellon," said he, " here's a bit o' some-
thing Jesse's brought ; Skipper George found un in the
path by his house, this mornin'. Tluit's what made un
take it so hard not findin' he/ at Mr. Urston's to-day,
I'll go bail."

" 'E was lyun jes this w'y, sir," said Jesse ; (" so
Uncle George told I,) wi' 'e's broadside to, an' a string
fast to un, 'e said, othervv'ys Uncle George wouldn' ha'
tookt notus to un, 'e said, (didn' um Izik ?) an' the string
cotch 'e's foot, sir."

The thing was a chip, smoothed on all sides, and bear-
ing an inscription, rude and illegible enough, but which
Jesse repeated very glibly in his own English.
"YER MEAD IS SAFE ANF."
It was determined that the bit of wood was an oar-
blade, and that the meaning was,

" Tour maid is safe enough.*^
Gilpin dismissed the fishermen and went, as he had
been desired, into Mr. Wellon's study.

fJIJ;

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188

THE NKW PUIKST.

The writinj; upon the chip was not the only literary
effort to be senitinizetl. There had been left at the
Parson's door, during the night, a bit of paper on which
(thi: handwriting being better than the spelling or syntax)
was written as follows : —

" Thers som prodstins bisen about sarchen that's not to
Gud is niver thafe ar sniuglar Pimunx thim id lik to no
Ef al tels bes thru — plen Spakun."

Gilpin made his way through this much more readily
than Mr. AVellon had done, smiling at the word "Emunx"
which he said " was one way o' spellin* it ! "

What the writer meant to have written, it was con-
cluded, was, —

" There's some Protestants busying about searching^
that's not too good. Is (there) never (a) thief or smug-
gler amongst them., Id like to know, — if all tales bes true f
— Plain Speaking."

Gilpin said, " It was easy enough to see what that
meant ; it meant Ladford, who fished with Skipper
George, and who was said to have been a wild and des-
perate fellow years ago, and to have a price on his head.
He had been very active in the search ; a quiet man that
kept back, as Mr. Wellon no doubt had noticed, on Saturday.
But if ever a man had repented in this world, Ladford
had repented, Gilpin believed, and he had been a great
many years in the country. Withal he was the very
handiest man in the Bay; could work a frigate, Gilpin
believed, single-handed, and twirl her round in her own
length.

" As for Skipper George's daughter, everybody knew
that Ladford considered her as an angel, or something
more than earthly ; and it was no more to be thought that
he'd harm her, than that her own father would. There

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

180

great

was something between Ladford and Skipper George;
but wlicthcr there was a relationship, or what, nobody
knew."

Tliis was Gilpin's story ; and with what Mr. Wellon
had heard before, determined him to find out Ladford and
talk with him; to give the letter to the magistrate just
then, was not thought likely to further the ends of justice;
nor was it thought advisable to mention it.

Captain Nolesworth's o[)inion, about the punt, seemed
well worth attending to; and it was determined, if possible,
to follow it up. Messrs. Worner & Co.'s head clerk had
expressed a willingness, on behalf of the house, to put
down their names for fifty pounds towards one hundred, to
be offered as reward for finding the lost maiden, — or one
half of fifty pounds for finding her body ; and it was
understood that the other merchants of the place (includ-
ing Mr. O'Rourke,) would make up the full sum. Un-
doubtedly Government would take it up, if the local
magistrates could not do any thing ; and whatever facts, if
any, should come out, implicating any persons in the guilt
of abduction, could be laid before the Grand Jury.

Ladiord's house, on the southern side of Indian Point,
was the worst there, — and scarcely a house. He was
near, — a man of middle size, or more, and upright,
except his head. lie had a high, smooth forehead ;
deep-set eyes, looking as if their fires were raked up ;
slender nose, and thin cheeks and lips ; — the whole face
tanned by life-long exposure to the weather.

Beside a battered " sou'-wester," thrown backward, his
dress was made up of a shirt of bread-bag-stuff, sewed
with round twine, in even sailmaker's stHches, and clean ;
and of trowsers cut out of tanned sails, and sewed as
neatly as the shirt. His feet were bare.

190

THK NKVV IMIIKST.

" I've come upon some private business with you," said
the derjrymau ; — Ladford started. His visitor, noticing
it, said: "but Vm not an olficer; you needn't be afraid
of me."

" I oughtn't, sir, surely, of a man of God," said Ladford.

"No; and needn't. You see I know somethinjr of
your case ; and we should have known each other, if I
could have found you before ; for I've been here two or
three times."

As he mentioned his fruitless visits, a startling — most
repulsive — leer just showed itself in Ladford's face ; but
it disappeared, as suddenly and wholly, as a monster that
has come up, horrid and hideous, to the surface of the
sea, and then has sunk again, bodily, into the dark Deep;
and is gone, as if it had never come, except for the fear
and loatiiing that it leaves behind. — This face, after that
look, had nothing repulsive in it, but was only the more
subdued and sad.

There was a short silence ; and then Ladford spoke : —

" Some men," said he, " mus'n't keep upon their form ;
for it won't do for them to be found by every one ; but
I'm sorry you came for nothing, sir ; I'd have been here
if I'd known you meant it."

Tiie Parson took the anonymous letter from his pocket,
and read it.

" There ! " said he, " that's what I came about ; but
I come on God's behalf, you know, and therefore as a
friend."

" I believe it, sir," said Ladford, who had been looking
in his face, and now bowed. " I don't blame any man
for thinking ill of me, or speaking ill of me ;— I'm a poor
fellow; — but this does ma wrong. Why, sir! it may
sound straiifre, but I'd give my life to find that girl !
Poor Susan ! "

AN OLD SMUGGLER.

191

u," siiiil
noticing
e airaid

jadford.
hing of
ler, if I
! two or

T — most
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ter that
3 of the
a Deep ;
the fear
fter that
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poke : —
ir form ;
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en here

pocket,

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re as a

looking
my man
a a poor

it may
at girl !

" Lucy ? " paid his visitor, scarcely aloud.

" No, sir ; it's another makes me .«orry, — one that's
dead. Ah, sir ! I was brou;;lit up to wickednes.s, for a trade !
«. I v-breakiiig, Sabbath-breaking, oath-brejikiii^;, heart-
' raking, swearing, drinking, fighting, — thirty-six years I
was among all that, iiuO more; shamed by it, and hating
it, till I got away from it. — Then, after all, to feel a devil
inside of you, that you've got in a chain; and to feel him
climb up against the sides of you, in here, before you
know, and glare, with his devilish look, out of your eyes,
and put liis dirty |)aw and pull up the corners of your
mouth, and play with the tackle in your throat, and r'ake
the words come out as you didn't mean, and then to feel
that tliis fellow's growth is out of your own life ! "

INIr. "Wellon, as he looked at the man, during this
speech, could see, in a sort of fearful pantomime, the
struggle! started and stifled between the poor fellow and
his devilish beastly familiar.

" But you do get him down. Christ will trample him
under foot. The more you need it, the more help you
get ; ' He giveth more grace,' " said the Minister of God,
pouring out encouragement to him.

" I haven't been a man," said the poor fellow, showing,
by the very words, that he had never lost his manhood ;
" I never was a son, nor a brother, nor a friend ."

" Were you ever married .'' " his visitor asked.

" No sir ; never. I ought to have been, and meant to
have been ; but I wasn't. — There's one that knows that
story, if he choose to tell it ; " and saying this, Ladford
looked at the Parson humbly, as if waiting for further
question, and then proceeded : " It's just about that part
of my life I'll tell, — if you'll please to hear ; 'twas the

i li'^

f» ii'i

11)2

THK NKW rUIKST.

happiest and 'hvas the most terrible sad, and mournfid in
it all. And it'll come in very well just now. Per-
haps, you'll know me the better when you've heard it. I
tried to (h) my duty lik<; a man, to one thin;;, and tixTe'n
all that's left of it," taking the black ribbon out of a
IJil,!,., u it'^ .^11 njrl,f,_it's all right! "

Many w«'ll-bred people would have been content with
seeing this poor man's relic, and would have kept their
touch and smell far olf from it ; but Mr. Wellon, with the
senses of a gentleman, had a man's heart, and wjis a min-
ister of Christ. He saw that the owner wished to lay it
in his hand, and he held out his hand for it and took it.

*' That riband," the story went on, " used to b<; about a

little boy's neck; a pretty little fellcw : like this Lucy ;

very like ! — It isn't likely that lie'd have been a wonder-
ful scholar, like her, but oh ! as pretty a little fellow as
ever God made to grow in the world. lie was so
straight ! — and he stood right up and looked in your face ;
as nuich Jis to say, ' Do you know God ? Well, I belong
to Him.' There ! There ! " — said poor Ladford, over-
come with what he had been saying and thinking, and
falling down on himself, — his breast on his Bible and his
head between his knees — and giving two heaves of his
body, forward and back. lie then raised himself up
again ; find, as his hearer, of course, said nothing, he
began again, when he was ready : " His hair was as
thick and solid, as if't was cut out of stone ; and his lip had
sucli a curl to it, just like the crest to a wave ; — you
know Lucy's, — it was much the same. I can't tell you his
eyes. You could look into 'em, and wouldn't think there
was any bottom to 'em. It seemed as if you could look

miles into 'em. Oh ! that boy ! " he exclaimed, in such

an intense sort of way as might have fixed one of the

AN OLD SMIJ(JGLKR.

\\K\

up
he

treu!4 into listciiing, and then suddenly appealed to Lid
visitor : —

" You're not tired of liearing, Mr. Weiion ? "

« No, no."
"Oil! tiiut

! lie's ffone !

1»»

and 'twas this

hand I this very hand —

The voice was one of sorrow and not of remorse ; hut,
hi-ving in mind the wild life that this man had led, and,
perhaps, having his heart full of the child tiiat had seemed,
a moment before, to be playing close by them, Mr. Wellon
cried out —

" Why, what did you do to him ? '*

" Oh ! no ! not so l)a<l as that. — Not worse than I am,
though," said Ladford, the indignant voice changing to
self-reproach ; " but I couldn't have hurt him, unless I
Wits drunk, and I never was drunk in my life."

" Whose child was it? " asked the clergyman.

The smuggler looked at him, with a s*art, and an-
swered instantly, —

« He was God's child ! "

Having waited for any further question, and none being
asked, he again went on where he had left off: —

" I took him to the church myself, on this arm, and
two real good Christians were godfather and godmother,
for the poor mother's sake. I was over in the far corner ;
she wasn't there. I didn't carry him back from church.
I wouldn't have opened my arms to take him in any more
than if he'd been the Lord Jesus Christ, in a manner.
They did love him dearly — poor motherl ss, fatherless
darling ! "

" Why, what became of the mother ? "

" Oh ! she died. Naturally, she died" answered the
smuggler, shaking his head and looking down. " I can't

I'd

104

THE NliVV rUIKST.

lalk about lier, sir — but tbo boy growcd ; and tho sea, that
b.'ul had so much wIckiMhioss doiio on it, got that boy."

" I ihonglit h(! never came near it," said tho Parson,
much as if iu; tiiought that ho could save it all y(!t, and
keep (he pretty boy, by thrusting in an impossibility made
of words.

Poor l^adford looked mournfully at him, and wistfully,
almost as if he, too, half hoped that it might not all be as
it was, and then, glancing at the black ribbon, continued
liis story : —

" lie never did, sir ; but it got him, just as much as if
it had a great rope of seaweed fast to him and dragged
him in. One day when I was going down the cliff', think-
ing of nothing, what should be there, like a beautiful bird
or a l)utt(!rtly on the path, but that handsome, handsome
boy ! I was confused and mazed like, I suppose. It
was so strange to see him there ; I don't know if he'd
ever been (old not to come to the sea ; but he'd been kept
about home ; and when I saw him, if I'd only once had
the thought to si)eak to him ; — but I hadn't. I was fright-
ened, I suppose, and I put out my hand to save him — just
this way — and that's all. That was the last ever was
known of that beautiful child, alive. There's my mark,"
said Ladford, showing the lower half of his left arm with
a knob on it, where it might have been broken.

" Ah ! that's a bad break. That was broken in more
than one place, or it hadn't good surgery," said Mr.
Wellon.

" You know about surgery, sir ? " said the smuggler.
" It ivas broken more than once ; but I think the surgeon
did his best. I went over (he cliff, too."

" And the child was lost and you saved, though all the
probability was the other way."

AN OLD SMUCiOLKR.

19.")

" Yes, indeed. They say I j^uve a great spring, like a
niadtnaii, and cleared every lliin;^, (except what did this,
and iiohody could tell what that was,) and he! ho went
ri;;ht down to his d«'alli. There was a rose-hush all
there, where they hiiried hiin, and his spirit and lite and
all his dear, hles.m.'d heaiity was gon<.' away out of the
world ; and whether it took something out of my eyes I
don't know; hut there isn't such a brightn(!ss on tho
leaves, or grass, or any where. I saved that hit of rib-
and ; it went down with me and came np with me. —
Now, sir," said Ladford, suddenly gathering himself up,
" I want to get this girl of George l{arl)ury's. It's a good
thing that it wasn't me that w<;nt down ; ay, it's a merci-
ful thing, that it wasn't mo taken away without e'er a
hand or a word raised uj) ! — I5ut, Parson Wellon, if
tl)(!re's a way on earth, we must find George Harhury's
daughter. God ordy knows what I'd give to he the one
to find her ! — I owe George liarbury life'a blood, and
more ! — Only one thing beside, 1 care ll)r."

The listener waited, but L.adford added nothing.

" Then that l)roug]it you up ? "

" I iDcis brought up at last, but it was years first. I
stopped many a bad thing being done by shipmates or
landsmen af't(!r that, and at last I knocked right off. I
had a house and a garden and a fishing boat, and I meant
to sell tlie whole of 'em, and give away the money to
something good ; but they got out a warrant against me,
long after I'd given up, and just when I was going to try
to do some good after all my bad, and so I got away, and
came off; and the neighbors know what I've been since
I've been in this country."

" You haven't given over honest labor, I hope, now
that you are repenting ? " asked Mr. Wellon, his question

fit

' i; •«JiE;'JiiJit'

i .J J

wXm

196

THE NEW PRIEST.

being one that might be suggested veiy naturally, by the
appearance of the former smuggler's house and dress.

" No, sir ; I do a man's work," answered the smuggler ;
" perhaps more."

" But you don't drink " —

" And yet I live in that wretched place, and dress like
a convict, you might say," answered Ladford with a quiet,
sad smile, drawing tiie contrast in words, that his visit-
or had, most likely, in his thought.

" For a man's woi'k you can get a man's wages, can't
you?"

" That wouldn't follow in my case," said the poor exile ;
"but I do."

JMr. Wellon understood ihe sentence and replied —
" But certainly, any body that employed you would pay
you ? "

" Not so surely ; but I'm laying up wages in one place,
I hope. I live, and all I can do in a day's work, is for
others, and I hope I'm laying something by."

Just as Mr. Wellon was leaving him, a voice was
heard from above, in the little woods, and Ladford an-
swered —

" 'Is. I'se a comin'. I'll be with 'ee in short, and
bear a hand about that chumley." And so entirely had
he taken the words and way of the country, that he
seemed almost another man.

Ilis story iiad not been a very comj)lete one ; but
there seemed to be a tie that bound Ladford to Lucy's
father, or herself, through that boy and the boy'a mother.

TWO WHO HAVE MET liEFORE.

197

CHAPTER XXII.

AN INTERVIEW OF TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

N the whirl of happenings and doings wo must not
too long forget some of our chief characters. Fan-
ny Dare, who saw most of Mrs. Barre, — indeed
any one who knew her, could not but see the change
which a little while had made in her ; for she was
changed. There were tears oftener in her eyes now
than before ; and they were formerly not seldom there.
Her cheek was something thinner and more pale ; there
was a fixed and intent look in her eye when she was
listening to another, or was in thought ; and whe» siie
spoke, — if her thoughts were not apparently abstracted, —
her words came so few and strong, that it seemed as if
all she did were done with a great might. Yet she was
gentle and tender.

There was a wakefulness about her, as if she were ever
fearing or expecting something ; and she had that expres-
sion, which, to the best hearts, is most touching in the
human face ; not of asking pity, but of needing it. Her
eye grew fuller, as her cheek became more thin and pale.

It is very touching to see one to whom life is so earntsst
and serious a thing, as it evidently was to Mrs. Barre ;
(there was no trifling, or play, or idleness with her ;) and
it was quite as touching to see how unforgettingly she
kept her burden from bearing on the young life of little
Mary.

■Ir

'■ ' '■ '

■ ' . ' •, ■

J; ,

i'i?ij

■f

b£ i^'

lln '

■1

illl

fc«-^. iiK.

108

THE NEW PRIEST.

It was on Monday evening that slie sat in her chamber,
wlios(> window looked to tlic west, and gazed upward into
tlie sky. Her sniootli forehead, whose clear brows were
bared by the falling-back of her dark hair, and her large
eyes fixed, made her a fit figure for the silent time.

JNIiss Dare sat near her.

Before them both hung one bright star, in air ; and on
the earth was the still land and water ; and far off, the
inland hills, which, at this distance, and in this waning
light, and standing in a land as unknown as if it were yet
undiscovered, look like a rim of some happy, hidden val-
ley.

Mrs. Barre had never opened her mystery, further, to
her friend ; nor of course, had Fanny sought to look into
it ; only, that there was something, was understood be-
tween them.

JMrs. Barre broke the thoughtful silence, saying,
" Sometimes what I am striving and hoping for seems
as hopeless and unattainable as the star tl>at the child
reaches after." (Such was the bright star shining down
to them, mildly as it had shone so many — countless
many — nights since first this world knew darkness.)
"And yet," she added, "auguries are nothing. The faith
of our best wisdom, and clearest conscience, and simplest
trust, is right ! "

So she spoke, in faith ; and so God heard, who orders
all things. There are, to us, no gates, — the " gemina)
somni porhe," — through one of which fleet disregarded
hopes and prayers unheeded ; while, through the other,
go glad prayers accepted and bright hopes to their fulfil-
ment ; and yet in our day, as of old, one strong wish forces
its way through rugged, rocky soil, grows u|) from sturdy
root, and comes to ripeness ; another falls and leaves not

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

190

a wreck of froth upon the ground, where stood a perfect
globe of loveliest hues.

While she was speaking, a man came across the little
open green towards the house. He was of an unfamiliar
look and unlike the harbor-planters, but he came straight
forward, turning neither to the right nor left, and not
hesitating, up to the gate and through the gate, to the
door, and there he had a message for the lady of tlie
house ; for Mrs. Br.iy, as he called her.

Mrs. Barre was much agitated, and pressed Fanny's
hand, as she rose to go down to him, and leaned against
the stairs in th(» hall, as she stood to hear his message.

The man was an uncourtly messenger. " A Catholic
clergyman," he said, ''desired his compliments, and would
like to meet JMrs. Bray at Mr. Ilenran's, at any time she
might ])lease to set."

The lady's voice testified to her ngitation, as she an-
swered, '* I shall be happy to meet such a person as you
speak of; but, of course, I cannot make a[)pointments out
of my own house."

" It's a Catholic praste," said the messenger, almost
gruflly.

" Who is he ? " she asked.

'' That I don't know any thing about, ma'am ; I was to
say ' a clergyman.' "

" And what is \o\u' own name ? "

" Froyne is my name."

" Yes ; then have the kindness to say that T am at
home now, and expect to be at home to-morrow, till three
o'clock."

The man turned on his heel, and with an ungracious
or awkward ceremony departed.

Mrs. Barre, after standing a few moments where she

200

THE NEW PlIIEST.

:; :l:\.

i.ii:

3i'';

was, went up stairs to her seat opposite the bright star,
taking Fanny's hand and holding it. Presently she spoke
of the appointment she had just made, and lioped that
Fanny Dare might be in the house when the meeting
took place. They both started, as again a man's dark
figure came upon the green ; Mrs. Barre, clasping her
hands, turned away to the wall.

A knock was heard ; not long nor loud, but even, reg-
ular, decided; the work of a hand whose weight was
exactly known.

" I didn't expect him to be on us so soon," said Fanny
Dare ; " what shall I do ? "

" Just stay here, if you'll be so jrood. Don't go further
off; there's a good girl," said Mrs. Barre.

" But it's almost the same thing as being in the same
room," said Fanny, in a whisper.

Mrs. Barre was too occupied to answer, and the servant
announced a gentleman to see her, waiting in the parlor
Lelow.

Mrs. Barre came to the door of the room, pale, and
earnest, and straightforward, as she always was in all
things ; but as she paused upon the outside, so on
first entering the room, the door of which she did not
shut entirely, she paused, with her sight fixed upon the
floor.

When she raised her eyes, she found the gentleman
standing respectfully ; it was Father Nicholas. In the
light of the candle, which marked distinctly the well-cut
outlines of his features, and threw the deep lines and
hollows into shadow, he looked more handsome and
thoughtful than even by day. His simple black dress
was just as fit, and seemed as much to belong to him as
his smooth, shining cassock or soutane.

TWO WHO HAVE MET BEFORE.

201

Mrs. Banc startf^d, but said, instantly, " You are no
guest in my liouso, Mr. Crarni)ton."

He fitood meekly and unobtrusively, looking on the
lloor.

" 1 hope," said he, " that any harsh feelings or injuri-
ous suspicions, formed in other days "

** I know you, Mr. Crampton ! " she said, holding the
door wide open. " You have no claim on my forbear-
ance, and less than a right to expect me to talk with you.
We shall have no further communication together."

He bowed formally ; but there was an intensity in his
look which showed what was roused within him. His
face was livid and his forehead moist. He passed out,
vvilh another slow inclination of his body, saying, —

"Not now, but xary likely hereafter. I think you will
not forget — I came with little hope of saving you, but
to clear my own soul."

" I couldn't help hearing," said Fanny Dare. " I
wish I had been deaf; I can be dumb."

They sat long silent, and she held Mrs. Barre's hand.
Mrs. Barre sat long after Fanny had gone home.

202

TUE NEW riUESl.

I Hi

' If

m^^

Rf U'i

'j;^'

; i:

CHAPTER XXm.

FATHER DEBRKE AT BAY-HARBOR.

AY-HARBOR is a town of some importance in
Conception Bay, and a good deal of trade and
business. It is also the chief town of a distrct,
as respects the Roman Catholic Church ; and the chief
clergyman of that denomination officiating in Bay-Harbor
is superior in rank and title to the others in that district.

At this time the Romish clergy there were the Very
Reverend Father O'Toole, the Reverend Father Dunne,
(absent for some months,) and the Father Nicholas, whom
the reader has already met.

The elder priest had been for a good miny years at
Bay-Harbor, and was generally liked and thought of, as
kindly and warm-hearted men are apt to be. He held
the reins of discipline gently ; had been, until quite lately,
a frequent visitor in families of other faiths, and had
given his horse to the English clergyman.

The nature of Father Nicholas's position there, or con-
nection with the mission, was not very evident. By short
and frequent steps he had made his way into the very
midst of every thing; had got Father O'Toole's right
hand, as it were, in his ; while the latter had, for the last
few months, (since the withdrawal of the priest who had
been associated Avith himself for years, and who was ex-

r I

THE NEW PRIEST AT BAY-HARBOR.

203

pected again,) submitted so quietly to the absorption of
much of his own work and authority, that it might have
been tliought to be an arrangement that he hked. Many
people thought the new comer to have been sent out
specially by the Holy Father himself, and it was reported
that he kept a record of every thing done and said in the
important town of Bay- Harbor, ([)eople think their own
town a place of great con.-^ecpience in the world ;) and
tluit the Court of Rome was kept regularly informed of
every thing that transpired, and a good deal more. It
was agreed that his father had been once a merchant in
Jamaica ; afterwards in Cadiz ; and that Father Nicholas
had been brought up in Spain.

Some sharp people said of him that it was not likely
that a man of his talents would be kept in the sort of
obscurity that even Bay-Harbor must be considered as
im})0.sing, unless for good reason : and that it was prob-
ably a kind of banishment, inflicted or allowed by his
su[)eriors ; but others as sharp maintained, in opposi-
tion, that Father Nicholas was intrusted with every
priestly function and authority, and that it was a vulgar
prejudice only that attributed to the Church of Rome the
tolerance of unworthy men in its ministry. Many Pro-
testants accordingly showed particular attention to this
priest.

His own character gave no more encouragement to one
supposition than to another ; but might be reconciled to
any. Elegant, even to extreme, at times, in his inter-
course with ladies or men of intelligence, he was, some-
times, negligent and even abrupt or rude to either sex.
Highly educated and studious, as he was thought to be,
he was not free from a pedantry, (or affectation of
pedantry,) in conversation. There was another habitual

I, •

201

THIC NKW IMMKST.

!i!

flli

^H*

antithesis about him ; ho ailov/ed hiinsell' oIUmi in a remark,
whose freedom betrayed his familiarity witli tlie ways
and wisdom of li»e worM, or whose sareasm, bitterness, or
even venom sliowed the eheap estimate at wiiieh he lieUl
men ; while, on the otiier iian«l, he would utter, habit-
ually, lof^y priiu'iples of virtue, and warm and movinjif
arguments for truth, and (juoted (in their own lan<j;ua«j;(\)
the offiees of the Chureh and the authorized Scriptures,
very fre(|uently and with «j;reat, solenmity.

It was eurious to see the inlluenee of his new associate
upon the plain old Father Tereuee. Nominally and
ostensibly at the head of the eler<;y of the district, and
enjoying the title of Very Keverend, ho put the other
forward, very of\en, or allowed him to put himself for-
ward, both in doing and counselling, in a way which
proved his own imlolence, or the intellectual or other
superiority of the younger man.

In one respect the inlluenee of the younger upon the
elder wjis anmsingly exhibited; the worthy Father
Terence, liaving resumed his studies, and making a point
of quoting Latin and also of discoursing ethics and
logic when the presence of Father Nicholas tempted him.
He prevented the recognition of his own precedence
from falling into desuetude, by asserting or inferring it,
on occasion, when there was need.

Father Nicholas, for his part, proclaimed his own sub-
ordination.

So matters stood in Bay-Harbor, at the time of our
story, and to the house in which the two priests lived, not
far from the chapel, we are now to bring our reader.

It must have been about seven o'clock, on the Tuesday
morning, that Father Debree was leading the horse from

Tllli NKW PRIEST AT BAY-IIAUBOB.

20^

which ho, hml just dismounted, into the premiscH of the
lionian Catholic mission at 15ay-IIarbor.

"Ah! thin, it's th(5 early bird catches the fox," cried
11 j;ood-naturcd voice from above. " Can ye tie him
some phice, a bit? an' I'll be with ye, directly."

While tluj utterer of the proverb was coming, or prc-
parinjij to come, the dismount(!d horseman looked about
for the " some jilace " at which to IimcIi his horse, u thing
more easily souf^ht than found. Posts there were none ;
trees there were none; and at length the horse was fas-
tened to the paling near the road.

" Y'are youi»g(;r than mcself," said the voice, which
liad before addressed him, and which now came through
tin; door, " and ye haven't that weight of cares and labors ;
but I'm glad to see ye," it added heartily, as Father De-
bree came up into the door and received a very hospi-
table shake of the hand.

"I beg pardon for being so unseasonable. Father
Terence," said the visitor. "You didn't expect mc so
early ? "

"Ah, brother, if ye do ever be placed in a con-
spikyis and responsible post, ye'll know that it's what

belongs to us. I am continyally, continyally, but

come in ! "

As he talked thus. Father Terence had gone, with dig-
nity, solid and substantial, before his guest into the parlor.
The dignitary's most " conspikyis " garment was not sueh
as gentlemen of tiny occupation or profession are accus-
tomed to appear in. It was not white, and yet it was not
black or colored ; it did not fit him very handsomely ; was
somewhat short in the legs, with a string or two dangling
from the lower ends, and, indeed, had the appearance of
something other than a pair of trousers.

:,1

2or>

THK NKW rUIKST.

*iv-

llis stockmfi;^ wen; not m"(\oll>i|»lkyl^ " ' iHlIII^ (HU!" UP '
gi'MV and (MIC of bljick-mixod, very iii(hil}j;cnlly pulhul on
ami crowded into two slippers, (not a pair,) of wliieh onn
had the appearanee of bein^ a s!ioe tuiMU'd down at heel,
and ihe other was of a very cde<i:ant velvet, ihon^h of a
shajM' somewhat wider than is elegant in a hnniaii foot.
He had a lonuj black coat opening; <h>wnward from a
pinnule bntton fastened at the neck ; and on his head a
close fitting cotton nighlcaj) coininj]^ (h)wn cosily about two
good thick cheeks and tied below his chin.

The face above this body was ])lain, but kindly-look-
ing; the eyes being narrow, the nose longish and thick,
and tiio mouth large ; but a good, honest face it was.

"Take a chuir, then!" said the nightcapped head,
bowing with dignity. — '' Now, brother — "

" I've hurried you too much, Father O'Toole," said the
younger. " I can wait, till you're i-eady to coma down."

" Am n't I down, then ? " asked Father Terence, con-
clusively. " Do ye mind the psalm where it says, 'Prce-
veitcrunt oculi mei, dUiiento ut meditarer' ? " *

♦' 1-Cxcuse me, Reverend Father Terence," said a third
voice ; " you never lay the harness off — "

" Ah ! don't flatter, now, Father Nicholas ! " said the
elder, but looking complacently to his guest.

" Permit me," said the other, " to entertain an old
neighbor and friend, while you allow yourself a little time
for even so insignificant an object as dress."

Father Terence had evidently not bestowed a thought
upon 80 insignificant a thing; and, glancing downwards
at ' the harness which he had not laid of!',' hastily gath-
ered the skirts of his black garment over his knees, and
retreated — quickly, but with homely dignity.

* ^ly eyes have liasted to Thee, in the dawn, to meditate. — Ps.
Hi). 148.

THK NKW IMJIKST AT HAY HAlM'.OIi.

207

litate. — Ps.

Katlicr NiclioijiH wns not liiiblti to c(!iisur(3 on tlio Bcoro
of IiJivinjj; i.t'i^Kicrtcd liis dicss; for iiotliiii*^ could iiiipross
onu witli 11 soiiso ot tlioroii;;liii('Hs, niori! pcrl'cclly lluin liin
wliole p(U'8oii;il {ip|>cuniiic(! ; liliick, — soiiuiwluit ^losny, —
from hi.s tliroat down to the floor; contniHtod ul)out tliu
niiddli! l)y liin two white liaiids, (of which on(! glistiiiicd
with a sijirnet-rin<!j,) and reiirAed above by th<! pale, yel-
lowish face, witii its high forcihead, and dark, shining eye,
and the emphatic, determined mouth. Above the face
was glossy wavy black hnir, cut short.

" I'm sorry to liave seen so little of you," he said, in
a courtly way, without warmtii, to the gu(!st, who gave no
sign of being awart; of his presence ; — '"• we'i'e so busy ! "

So the other turned, and said gravely: —

" I'm gl.'id that wt/ time is pretly well taken up; " then
(while Father Nicholas, folding his arms, paced the floor)
reminded himself, aloud, of his horse, and went out.

The ' old neighbors and friends ' greeted each other.

Solid steps were heard ; and, soon, were bringing
Father Terence back. " * liimnm est viro, cum portaverit
jiif/nm ah adolesccn/ut Sha.'"* he was saying.

'' A mind stored with sacred precepts ! ^ dulclora super
mel et fiivtun,'^ t Father Nicholas exclaimed, while he also
quietly left the room.

The worthy elder came to emptiness. — He said, cheerily:

" The present company seems mostly to be absent ! "

llis guest, just then, came in ai»d ajiologized.

"Ah!" said Father O'Toole, "I know, meself, it's
quare things they do. I'd one, gnawed his mane and tail
off, manny's the time, when my eye was off him. The
children all said the one thing of 'um ; and sure, they'd

* It is good for a man to have borne the yoke from his youth. —
Lam. J Kit. 3. 27.
t Sweeter than honey and the honey -comb.— I's. I'J. 10.

208

TIIK NKW rniKST.

Ml rl

the best chance to know, having nothiriij else to do, mostly,
but to be watchiii' him at hiH pasture." Ilinguest oouM
not helj) smilinff at this fiiinplc notion of the ncccHsity of
looking after a vahiable horse who had c«)nie some miles at
a good rate, lest he should eat off his own tail and mane.

" Ye'll stay the day, then, like a man of good sense,
won't ye," asked Father O'Toole. — •' It's not tiiat mneh
time I give upon the externals; — *^ tnrbamur — ' what's
this it is? — * err/n — plurima ; ' * one thiuf/s necensarij :^
but I'm more confonning and shutablo, now."

Indeed he was ; dressed in a long, black cassock of
camlet, or something like it ; black stock and black stock-
ings, and shoes with small silver, (at least shining)
buckles on them ; and irongray locks bi^hind ; respectable,
if not venerable, he looked like one of the Irish Roman
priests of the old time, who had been twenty or thirty
years in the island.

" We'll be having breakfast shortly," said the host ;
" it's not good talking too much with only air in your
belly ; and after breakfast we'll hear how ye're getting on "

The old gentleman went to see after breakfast, or some
oilier matter, and Mr. Debree was left to himself.

Nothing appeared in the room to occupy the attention
of the visitor but two remains of books, one painting on
the wall, and a box upon the mantel-shelf. The furni-
ture was scanty, not quite clean, and many of the pieces
occupied with things of many kinds. Of the books upon
the table, one was a breviary without covers, and almost
without contents ; for a great deal of what had formerly
been paper was now nothing. Of what remained in type
and tissue, a greasy flaccidness had taken hold. The other
was an odd volume of Mr. Alban Butler's Lives of Saint?,
* We are troubled about many things.

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TIIK NKW IMMKST AT HAY-HAKnOR.

209

of which it would he hard to say why it liad lost one
covrr; for tho inside .showed no such nmrks of use and
wc;ir as would account for it. Some |)laces had been fin-
g(;nMl, atul here a scrap of a tobacco wrapping-paper,
and there some pjrains of snuff, showed that, by accident
or of set purpose, its bulk of pa^es had been sometimes
br()k(Mi.

Father Terence soon called him to breakfast, and said,
"//e takes his meals by himself, mostly."

As may be supposed, no duty of hospitality was omit-
ted by the kindly Jrishman, and a ^ood example was set
in his own j)erson how to treat an honest hunger.

There were several subjects on which the two priests
were to confer, or did conf«'r; but Fatlu " Dubree was
still occupied with the loss of Skipper George's daughter,
and the suspicions attaching to the Urstons and to the
nuns from Bay-Harbor. The old priest took a kindly
interest.

" Indade, it's a sad thing for a father to lose his child ! "
said he.

" liut he's a Protestant," said Father Debree.

" And hasn't a Protestant feelings ? Ay, and some o'
them got the best o' feelings. I'm sure yerself's no call
to say against it. — It's in religion they make the great
mistake."

" I'm not inclined to deny it. Father Terence, and this
is a noble man, this Skipper George ; but "

" And who's Skipper George, then ? Is he the father?
Oh ! sure there's good Protestants ; and it's hard to lose
a child that way, and not to know is she dead or living, or
torn to pieces, or what ! "

" Not every one has such good feeling, when the father's

a Protestant."

210

THE NEW PRIEST.

f ;; ■'

" But the Urstons are not that way, at all ; and Jamea
was a good boy ! " answered the old priest.

" It's a mystery, and a deplorable one ! I couldn't
think they've taken her ; but she was last seen near their
house, probably ; and some things belonging to her have
been found at the house and near it ; there's no doubt of
that ; "

— " And haven't ye the direction of them ? " asked
Father Terence.

" Mrs. Calloran confesses to Father Crarapton. I
never see James. She tells me that he's leaving the
Church."

" No ! no ! " said the old priest, with great feeling ;
then shook his head and added, " I hadn't the charge of
him, this while back. — I mind hearing this girl was lead-
ing him away, but I can't think it of him."

" I don't believe she has done it. Father Terence, from
all that I can hear. He may have fallen in love with
her."

'■ And why would she let him, and him going to be a
priest ? "

" There were some nuns, so it seems, at Mr. Urston's
house that evening," said Father Debree, returning to the
former subject ; " and it's said that they were seen carry-
ing some one away."

" It's little I know about the holy women," Father Te-
rence answered, " more than if they were the Eleven
Thousand Virgins itself; but what would they rlo the
like for ? And would ani/ one belonging to this, whatever
way it was with the girl, without me knowing it ? — but
will ye see to the boy James ? And couldn't ye bring
him to speak vitli me ? "

Falliur Terence forgot and neglected his own break-

THE NKW PRIKST AT BAY-HARBOR.

211

fast, thouj^h he did not forget his hospitality. He seemed
ahnost impatient to have liis commission undertaken im-
mediately.

His guest, too, appeared to have little appetite ; but he
lingered after they left the table, and presently said : —

" There was another subject, Father Terence "

" Come and see rae again, do ! and we'll talk of every
thing ; and don't forget the lad. I'd not let you go at all,
only for that."

The young priest accordingly took Lis leave.

*lf

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•212

THE NKW PRIEST.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

DJOINING the priest's house in Bay-Harbor
was a small building of later construction, en-
tered from the opposite direction. At the door
of this building, a pretty loud not continuous rapping
was heard early in the forenoon of Tuesday, the nine-
teenth day of August ; and again and again.

" Wall, s'pose 1 may's well go 'n' stir up the neighbors
a mite, 'n' see what's the matter here. 'Guess they've
got a little o' the spirit o' slumber in 'em, b' th' way they
act," said the visitor. — A truculent man was hurrying
to him, from his work.

Presently a noise was heard within the house, and
the door was unlocked, unbolted, and opened. The work-
man stood still. — The visitor was already at some dis-
tance from the scene of his late exercise, and, in his way
of walking, was making many long steps between it and
himself. At the opening of the door, he came back with
alacrity ; glancing, only, at the watchful workman.

" Wanted to see the head o' this Inst'tootion a minute,
'f 'taint too m'ch trouble. Wun't you jest ask her to step
this way ? " he said, as he came to the door.

The janitress hesitated ; but, saying ' she would speak
to Sister Theresa,' shut the door gently between the holy
women and the man from the world without.

ii''

A CALL AT A XUNNKRY.

213

Another nun appeared, and meekly waited until the
visitor should declare his errand. The visitor, for his
part, had not his former fluency of sj)eech.

" 'Tvvas on business o' some 'mportauce t' the cath'lic
church," he said.

" I must refer you to the reverend clergy, sir. You'll
find one of them at the other door. Father Terence or
Father Nicholas." She was very definite, though very
gentle.

" Wall, ma'am," said the American, " 'f ye think I'd
bes' go 'n' see holy Father Nichols, first, wh' I'll go. 'M
sorry 'f I've disturbed ye ; 's no harm meant, I'm sure.
If ye'll make my compliments t' the rest, I'll say * Good
morniu', ma'am ' ; " and he held out his hand for a part-
ing courtesy. He might as well have held it out to the
moon ; and, seeing this, he said : —

" Hope the's no hos-tile feelings ; wish ye * Good-day,*
ma'am."

The sister bowed gravely, and gently shut the door.

" Wall, look a' here," said Mr. Bangs, as he found him-
self alone with himself, on the outside, turning round to
survey the building and neighborhood.

" Have you business with some one here ? " asked a
voice that made him start a little ; and he saw Father
Nicholas, such as we have described him.

" Wall ! ol' Gen'l Isril Putnam's wolf was a fool to
this," said Mr. Bangs, in a low voice, by way of rein-
stating himself in his self-possession ; then aloud, " Oh !

How d'ye do, Mr. ? Can't 'xacly call ye by name

— Holy Father guess '11 do. Wall, I did have a little
business with 'em, 'r some of 'em. Seems to be c'nsid'ble
rural retirement 'bout this — nunnery, s'pose 'tis, — . This
country don't seem t' have much natch'l gift 't raisin' trees

M-ll

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214

Tin-: NF.w rniKST.

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illL,.,3P'

— don't seem 't lake to it. — Bangs, my name is. Come
fm th' States."

" And may I ask, Mr. Bangs, what particular business
you had here ? "

" Certin ; 's no harm 'n askin', ye know. 'T's the
motto 'f the R'public, ye may say."

" I should be glad to know, then," said Father Nicholas,
drily.

" Shouldn't wonder 'f 'twould 'ford ye some pleasure ;
though guess ye'll be ruther 'stonished, f 'r a spell. Come
to look int' this r'ligion-business a mite. Don't mind
tellin' you. Prove to E-1 Bangs " —

Father Nicholas smiled : " Oh ! Mr. Bangs, from Pe-
terport, the American merchant ! " said he. " Your nation

is becoming distinguished ," ("they're 'bout it, I

b'lieve," inserted Mr. Bangs, by way of commentary,)
" for intelligence and enterprise." (" The' is such a thing's
bein' cute, certin," said Mr. Bangs.) " So you wanted
to make some religious inquiries ? "

" Wall, 'snmch that 's any thing, 'guess," said Mr.
Bangs, who, as he concentrated his force upon his words,
knitted his brows, and looked a little to the left of the
person he was addressing, as we are taught to look at
bright bodies in the sky. " D'ye s'pose they'd gi' me a
chance to git conviction ? 'T any rate, t' look into it and
join, 'f I felt like it?"

" Oh ! yes," answered the priest, " any body can have
a chance. There's a way wide enough."

" Yes. — Bible says, ' Wide is the way,' " said Mr. Bangs.
" Ye see the's all my folks are Protestants, 'n' al'a's were,
fur's I know, f 'm th' beginning of the Bangses, and stood
p'tty high, too, — that is, some of 'em did. Why, my great
uncle was Deacon Parsimmon Tarbox — lived at Brain-

A CALL AT A NUNNERY.

21.")

Come

siness

tree, *n Massacliiisotts. 'Tain't likely you ever heard of
him; but I dono what 'd come over 'em to hear 't one o*
the fiimily M turned Catholic."

" liut let me ask, If you wanted to see me, how came
you to call here ? "

" Wall, sir. I didn't exactly come to see you. I come
t' see some o' the folks that keep this 'stablishment."

" What sort of establishment do you take this to be,
then?"

" Why, a nunnery, 'r a convent, or somethin' o' that
sort."

" But you don't ex[)ect to take the veil, do you ? " in-
quii-ed the priest, with an unqualified smile.

" No. * 'Vale o' tears ' 's all my veil, I guess. But you
see, it's these nunneries, and mummeries, 'n' what not,"
(Mr. Bangs looked very harmless,) "are gen'lly counted
about the hardest thing in the Catholic religion ; and my
way is, al'a's to go chock up to head quarters, when I
want to know about a thi.ig, and so, thinks I, I'll jes' go
and see for myself."

" Did you expect to walk right in and look about for
yourself?"

" Wall, I thought, you know, 'taint like one o' those
Eastern hairims, where they wun't let a fellah go in, any
way, 'cause the women all belong to 'em, and they're
afraid to have 'em ketched or snapped up. Says I, This
is a Christian institootion, all open and above board."

" Yes, you're right, to a proper extent. There is no
concealmcMit but what is necessary for the object ; which
is, retirement from the world in peace and safety. Men^
of course, are excluded, because this is a house of holy
women."

" Cer-tin. 'Stablishraent I'k' this 'd make a church of

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210

THE XKW riUKST.

itself, and might have meetin', — ?nass, ye know, — all t
themselves, and a priest o' their own. Why, 't the Lu-
natic 'Sylum up to Worcester, they have a preacher, and
keep the men and women — wall, keep *em separate, any
way. Say here's where the females sit, all 'long here,"
(waving his hand,) " then here's what ye may call a broad
aisle ."

" May 1 inquire what particular object you had in view
in seeing the head of tlie family here ? " asked the Priest.

" Wh' ye know tli' Protestants 'r' pleggy hard upon
convents ; — clappin' gals up, an' keepin' 'em 'n prison, 'n*
dungeon, 'n' what not. When the's so much 'f it, ye
want t' hear t'other side. Over here to Peterport, th*
wanted me to go 'n' testify 't I saw the iiuns acarr'in* off
that gal, (dow!i the rocks, there ;) but I come away 'n*
left 'em, s'pose ye heard ; — 's such a thing 's goin' too far.
Sometimes they want to be carried off; 'n' sometimes the*
aint 'ny carr'in' off 'bout it. Thinks I, 's nothin' 'gainst
my goin' 'n' callin' 'n a fash'nable way, 'n' takin' a look.
The's ben some pleggy smart men 'n the Catholic church ;
(there's Cardinal Wolsey ;) and these Protestants, s'pose
you'll admit, are a little the slowest race ! — kith, kin, kit,
— the whole boodle of 'era. Their wits ain't cute 'nough
to find the holes in their heads, / b'lieve. Why, there's
their Magistrate can't stand it : shouldn't wonder 'f he
turned."

At this point Mr. Bangs waited for his companion, who
had been apparently rather entertained by the American's
matter and manner.

" You saw Sister Theresa, I suppose ? " he asked.

" Yes, sir ; 'n' found her quite the lady. Don't seem
t' come out, 'xactly, I'k' some — owin' to bringin' up, likely
—but what ye'd cal] a fine woman. Now, 'n th' States,

A CALL AT A NUNNKRY.

217

^r, and
e, any
here,"
broad

ye walk right up to a public inst'tootion, 'n' they invite ye
in, and show ye the whole concern, 'n' ask ye to write
your name 'n a big book t' show 't you ben there."

" Well, Mr. Bangs, it's unusual, but your case is peculiar,
being a citizen of the Great Republic, and disposed to be
impartial. Perhaps we might make an exception in your
favor. I suppose the sooner the better, in your opinion.
For instruction I shall introduce you to the Very Rev-
erend Father O'Toole, by-and-by."

" Wall, sir, tlie's a hymn (dono's y' ever heard it)
goes —

• Now's the day, an' now's the hour:
See the front o' Babel tower:
Set approach proud Satan's power:
Sin an' Shivery.' "

" I's all'a's brought up t' know the value 'f time, 'n' do
a thing while ye're about it. I's brought up there by
Boston, ye know, — close by, out to Needham, that is,
where they had the Gen'l Trainin', (used to, 'n I's a
sliaver, 't any rate.) Never had t' tell me, ' Go to yer
aunt, ye sluggard.' Wall, folks al'a's hed the credit o'
bringin' up p'ty fair specimens, about Baston, you know.
'Course your province-people (that is, dono 'bout the
priest-psLrt, but province-folks gen'lly) knovr all about
Boston 's well 's I can tell ye. Why, fact, up here in
Canady, ('ts all same thing, s'pose,) they used to call all
the people in the States ' Bostonese,' or ' Bostonase,' or
whatever the French word is. Wall, the bringin' up
'bout Boston . 's p'tty well known. I's a mere runt to
some of 'em ; but, 's I's sayin', about this Peterport, 's
they call it — might 's well call it Potter-port, 'n' be done
with it — for such a potterin' and pokin' about their busi-
ness, I never saw. Yankee Doodle 's our naytional toone,

>\ll

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1-f 'I

218

THE NEW PRIEST.

ye know ; and there aint 'ny stop about that ; when our
Yankees set out with that, something's got to go, ship-
shape or shop-shape, 'r some way. A fellah must hev a
plaguy sight of stick in his shoes that don't go ahead to
that toone. 'Twa'n't so much the fault o' the British, 's
'twas becos nothin' ca7i stand before our Yankees when
they're hitched on to it and that toone agoin'. Wh' 't

Bunker that's 'bout wars and battles, though ; don't

concern us, now ; but I dono's ye ever noticed what a sol-
emn psalm-toone that '11 make, only put it slow enough.
Faw-hCl-law ! " he sang, strMigliienhig his neck and swell-
ing out his throat, as if beginning au illustration of the
adaptedness of his favorite air.

The Priest smiled. « We'll try, then," said he.

So saying, he turned to the door on which the knuckles
of the American had been playing so persistently, and
knocking three times, and ringing a bell, gave the sen-
tence, " Ave, Maria Sanctissima ! "* in a clear voice. An
answer was made by a woman, " Sine labe concepta,^' f
and then the entrance was made open to them.

Father Nicholas went forward into the nearest room,
Mr. Bangs following, and the sister being in the rear.
He then turned square about and said : " Sister Agnes,
this visitor from the United States of America is making
inquiries into the truths of our Most Holy Faith. He has
a desire to ascertain whether our religious houses are
prisons. Have the kindness to say to Sister Theresa,
that, with her leave, we are come to see this simple little
house."

— "What's your will. Father Nicholas?" asked Sister
Theresa, meekly, as she entered.

" Mr. Bangs, Ma'am, — you recollect," said the Ameri-
can, recaUing her memory to himself.

* Hail, Mary Mo:t Holy! f ^Vithout stain conceived.

A CALL AT A NUNNERY

219

" I only wish to ask perrnisalon, in favor of JNIr. Bangs,
here, to go through your little establishment in my com-
pany. It is not lor the gratification of idle curio.sity, but
for important reasons, -which I will explain hereafter,"
said Father Nicholas, looking significantly, less at Sister
Theresa than at the visitor, who answered, with an ex-
pression of intelligence, " Jes' so."

"J^ill you have the kindness to direct me?" asked
she, in return.

" We will follow you, if you please."

" And where shall we begin ? " asked she again, still in
uncertainty.

" Any where. Here, for example, at the beginning,
if you'll let me take the guide's olficc," said the Priest.
" This room, Mr. Bangs, is the parlor. Not very splen-
did, you see."

" Certin. This paintin' ain't a common work, by con-
sid'ble. One o' the best things o' that sort, I 'most ever
saw." In saying this, the American put himself at a
distance, inclined his head a little to one side, and applied
his hand, made into a tube, to his right eye, closing the
other. " Seems to freshen on the gaze ! don't it ! "

" This room, with this sort of hole in the door," con-
tinued his reverend guide, to the tasteful American, not
too abruptly, opening the door communicating with the
room in the rear, througli which the nun had come to the
former interview with her curious visitor, "is a sort of
back-parlor, having this opening to allow the ladies to
communicate, if necessary, with persons here, without ex-
posing themselves to the observation of strangers or others."

" Jes' so. Good '1 1'k' one o' the peek-holes at Bunkum's
Grand Universal Skepticon, down to Boston ; greatest
thing o' the kind in the world, thoy say. T don't s'pose

i
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220

THE NKW PRIICST.

Sister Tlieresy ever had much notion for those things ;
but you're aware there are great, — wall, — "

" Here we are at the last room on this floor. This
little place is a private retiring room, for prayer," inter-
rupted the Priest, gently and easily, — Mr. Bangs accept-
ing the interruption as quite regular.

" Don't seem to make much provision f the wants o
the flesh, any how," said the latter. " First house, pretty
much, 's I may say, I ever see 'thout a kitchin. Wall, I
didn't s'pose 'twas a fact, but they used to say, you know,
that nuns lived p'tty much like Injuns, on parched com,
and so on."

" The Sisters' simple cooking is done in the adjoining
house, belonging to the Reverend Father O'Toole," ex-
plained his guide, " for the Mission, in this place."

" Very solemn fixin', certin," said Mr. Bangs, as Father
Nicholas and the lady stood silent, after having crossed
themselves at siijht of the crucifix, and one of the usual
representations of the Virgin and Child, before which
'' fiiin'," as it had just been called, stood, on a little
bracket-shelf, a metal candlestick and candle and a few
very artificial flowers, with one real moss rose and three
real rose leaves among them.

** I ain't quite used to doin' that, yet," continued the
visitor, referring to the crossing, and gesticulating after
some fashion of his own. While he was makino: his
demonstration, liowever, there was some sound of a couirh
or sneeze from more than one of the neio-hborini; females,
whoever or wherever they were.

" Pupils, or servants," said the priestly conductor, look-
ing with something like asperity towards the Sister; then,
turning the end of the sentence to Mr. Bangs, " We shall
soon run through our narrow limits ; and you will get no

A CALL AT A NUNNKRY.

221

very exalted notion of the importance of our meek little
community," continued Father Nicholas. " Our next steps
go up these narrow stairs."

" Guess th'r' ain't much goin* down, f 'r 't seems folks
gen'lly, here, think the land turns to water, 'little way
down. No need o' raisin' a cry o' dungeons, and lockups,
and what-nots, under ground. Why, here's a little door —
fact, — goin' down to some root-cellar, likely ; — ' should like
to see a cellar under ground, f once, f ' variety, in thia
country."

" You shall be gratified, certainly," said his ecclesiasti-
cal guide, " as far as may be ; but I fancy that not much
is to be seen, unless the darkness is visible."

The American putting his eyes and nose down towards
the opening, remarked upon it, very summarily, " why,
't is ' 's dark 's a pitch-pipe,' 's the boy said, and smells
strong 'f old straw or hay ; but 't's a comfort to see it, any
how. You see, comin' right f m the States, where a man
*d jest 'bout 's soon think of hevin' no pockit in his pants,
as not hevin' a cellar to his house, it looks strange to me
not seein' one, all the time I've ben here : one o' your
real old-fashioned ones comes in well. What curis sort
o' partitions they have here, compared 'th real walls o'
lath and plaster," he concluded, knocking, at the same
time, with the knuckle of one finger, on the thin deal that
separated one room from another.

" These are slight houses, certainly ; but religious per-
sons, of all people, may be content to have what will last
their day : ' Non^ enim, habemus hie — for we have not
here a lasting city, but we seek one that is to come.' "

" Certin," said Mr. Bangs. " We ought to, any how."

The visiting procession passed now up the little creak-
ing stairs, the priest leading ; Mr. Bangs accompanyin<2

i'!l

«)•).)

TlIK NKW I'lMKST.

Iiitn hy jjjoliig up two stairs at a time, and then, poisinp;
iiimselt tor a moment, so as to keep tlie saiiK! relative tiis-
taru!e between himself and the rest of the l)arty, belbre
and behind ; the females bringing uj) the rear.

"Tins is *recrea(ion-honr,' is it not, Sist(M' Theresa?"
inquired tin; guide, and, reeeiving an answer in the
atlirmative, added, " I shall have great pleasure, Mr.
]Jangs, in giving you an opportunity of seeing every
member of the household, wllhout any exception; the list
is not as long as the roll of Xerxes' army, or the immortal
Washington's. We number only live, all told, I think :
one sick. Sisters 'J'heresa, Agnes, Frances, Catharine,
and liridg(jt ; two professed, as we call them ; one lay,
one novice, one })ostulant."

" Yes : j)ostulate means wanted, or as'd, 1 b'lievc ; one
*t you want to have join, I guess."

'' Reverse it, and you have the meaning of postulant,
exactly ; one that asks to be admitted."

" Oh, postulant / I's thinkin' of postulate. I got that
out of an old book o' my father's, time I was keepin* com-
pany o' Casty — widl, a good while ago."

" This room is what you'll understand, at once," open-
ing one to the left, of some ten feet by twelve, with a
recess at the further end, about five feet det^p and six feet
wide, railed across even with what was left of the wall ;
which latter was occu])ied entirely by a closed door on
one side, and an onen one on the other, showing a little
closet opening into the recess belbre spoken of, with a
screen or paling.

" That, you see, is an altar ; these pictures around the
room are what we call stations, used for marking different
places to kneel and pray."

" I see ! " said the visitor ; " solemn-lookin' jdace,

A CALL AT A NUNNKRY.

223

fiict ;" tluMi tuniinn^ J^wjiy, as before, vvitli a bow, be said
to Fatlier Nicholas, "this liouse stows more, atop, *ii down
b'low, 's they used to tell o' the York Uiitciiinaii and ids
bat."

" You've an excellent ey<', sir. This room is taken out
of the next house that 1 spoke of. If you'd faney it, you
f<hall see the whole arraiijjjement of that, also, by and by.
Ah ! here is Sister Frances ; and there is Sister Ursula."
(Th<;y all, except Sister Theresa, stood with tluiir backs
turned towai'd the visitors.) "• You sec all of the family
but one. Those; rooms are dormitorii ," opening one of
the doors which led into a plain room, (like those with
which the reader is familiar enougii,) containing several
bare and hard-looking beds, and little furniture of any
kind. beside.

Mr. Bangs cast a sharp side-glance into this room, and
tlien looked forward for further progress. Before the
next door were standinsr several of the Sisters ; Sister
Theresa explaining that this was the chamber of the sick.

" Please to let our visitor see the inside of the sick-
room, in which the gentle hands of our religious smooth
the pillow of the afflicted, as a sister. ' Universum stratum
ejus versasti — thou hast turned his whole couch in his
sickness,' Is the sufferer awake ? " the priest asked, in
a tender and sympathizing tone.

" No, Father Nicholas, she has been sleeping for some
time, quite heavily," answered, in a whisper, the nun who
held the door, and who, as she spoke, threw it open and
drew herself aside, as did Sister Theresa, who had been
standing beside her in front of the entrance.

The American, not changing either his place or posture,
except to bend his head, with unwonted reverence, down-
ward, stood, demisso ore, with a subdued look, bent first

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224

THE NEW PRIEST.

towards the bed on which the mere outline of t!;c sick
one could be seen, and then gradually turned to other
objects in the room. There was such perfect silence, that
the heavy, regular breathing was distinctly heard from
within. The change which had passed upon the visitor,
in presence of this scene of human need and helplessness,
was very striking, as he stood thus subdued, with hia
hands before him, one holding his hat, and the other the
opposite wrist. He was as still as if his very breathing
were too loud.

But it would be too much to look for very long stand-
ing-still or silence from him ; and soon, indeed, abruptly
lurning to his reverend guide, he spoke in an awkward
whisper, considsrably above his breath, which he had kept
down so carefully, as follows :—

" Dono's ye ever noticed it, about sickness — " when,—
precipitated by an ungainly gesture accompanying his
words, — a shower of things out of his hat dispersed them-
selves witliin the sickroom and about the floor on which
the company stood. The accident affected every member
of the party, even those wliose backs were turned. These
last rustled a little : nnd a sound almost like a giggle
came from some one or more, the most impulsive. Sister
Theresa crossed herself, as soon as she recovered from
the first shock of this rude and most unnecessary inde-
corum. The priest at first came near to smiling, uninten-
tionally ; but instantly visited the unsanctified misadven-
ture with a frown that gathered over the still lingering
smile, like a dark cloud above tlie streak of sunset-sky.
The short word " bah ! " escaped his lips.

The author of all this commotion, — interrupted in his
well-meant speech, glancing round the company, brushing
up one side of his hair over the bald, and saying, " Do

k^i, (T„

JV CALL AT A NUNNERY.

225

tell ! wall, don't stir," all at the same instant, almost, and
before any one had had time to recover, — dove forward
after the most remote articles of his scattered property.

In doing this he made little more noise than a cat, and
was just about as expeditious in his motions, following a
lead-pencil to one side of the chamber and a penknife to
the other, not leaving behind the habit of his nation, even
m this unexpected visit; but drawing near and casting
4 glance, in passing, at a colored engraving of a saint,
IS very likely he would have looked in a glass, had there
been one in the place, which there was not.

The handkerchief and an outlandish-looking news-
laper, which had dropped down in the passage-way and
remained there, lay where they had fallen, when he came
out, and then resum(;d their former phice. " Hope ye
wun't think hard o' my hat," he whispered, loudly, by
way of reconciling matters, " 't don't gen'lly act like ihi^t.
Hov/ever, b'lieve no harm's done. Don't let me keep
you, sir, awaiting, and the kdies."

The remainder of the visit was soon dispatched. Father
Nicholas appearing not less kind, if less cordial than be-
fore, and saying, — after a brief exhibition of the adjoining
room, — " You have now seen the whole, sir, and T hope
you'll remember your visit with pleasure. I told you at
the outset that you were treated with very rare con-
sideration, because I didn't believe that in your case it
would be thrown away. I shall be happy to give you
any further information which may be in my power."

" Very much obleegod to you, 'm sure, sir. 'T's done
me good. Jest what I like. Come and see for m'self
and ben treated like a gentleman. 'F 't 'adn't ben for
that — wall, 'accidents will occur, you know,' 's the fellah
said once, '^yish all success to the ladies, adoin' good

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226

THE NEW PRIEST.

and ril jest go straight to the other priest,— that's the
Rev. Mr. Terence's or O'Toole'o,— and do a little busi-
ness 'th him, 'f I find I can."

As Father Nicholas and his guest withdrew, Sister
Theresa was heard saying, "We will now go to our
office, sisters, and we have something to make up." The
machinery of the establishment (after the obstruction had
been removed) began to go as before. We go with the
retiring party as far as the outside.

1 1

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01 HER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

227

It! !

CHAPTER XXV.

THE MAGISTRATE DEALS WITH OTHER SUSPICIOUS

PERSONS.

)HE world was going on in Peterport also. Public
suspicion had, of course, repeatedly touched
Father Debree, but had never been able to
fasten on him. One or two overwise bodies undoubtedly
thought him the more dangerous, because (as they said)
" he was so deep, and made people think he was harm-
less ; " but almost every one (with Skipper George) ab-
solutely discharged him, before the third day. To have
found out what was his painful and mysterious connection
with Mrs. Barre, would have been a great deal for the
public. — It did not yet appear.

He was seldom seen in the harbor, and was soon little
spoken of; the fever too, in Marchants' Cove, which
killed no one, ceased to occupy men's tongues, or the
tongues of their wives. Mrs. Barre's sorrow and her
mystery were left to silence, while steadily the general
thought busied itself with following the lost maiden.

James Urston, it was said, had been with the priests
at Bay-Harbor ; but it was also said, that he was threat-
ened with excommunication, or some great penalty, and
public opinion naturally sympathized with the bereaved
lo\ er and the disaffected Roman Catholic, (if he was dis-

• iii

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228

THE NEW PRIEST,

afTectod ;) — the public eye still looked darkly at Mrs. Cal-
loraii, and beyond.

Mrs. Calloran herself had said, — very truly, — that
*' there were other old women in Peterport," and the hands
of justice, again feeling about, grasped Granny Palasher
and held her to an examination. Tiiey were to have
laid hold on Mr. Bangs, (this time,) and Ladford ; but
these had both slipped between, like other little men of
old time, between those of another giant. Of Ladford's
movements nothing was reported ; but of the American,
William Frank had this to say. That he had sent some
important communication to the vice-consul of his coun-
try, at St. John's, and had left the harbor for parts un-
known.

The magistrate made little out of the Granny, except
that her name was properly Ann Pilchard, and that the
public suffrage was with her when she asserted that she
" had an occupation and knowed it 'most so good as some
other folks did theirs, mubbe." Having in the course of
a day elicited so much, he adjourned his court.

Awaking from the sleep which had setcled down upon
a mind and body jaded with the long day's and night's
work, which went before and followed the last adjourn-
ment of his " court," and yet another full day's painful
deliberation, he was informed by his servant, that there
was a paper on the front-door, and that " he " (the
paper) "looked mostly like a print, seemunly." The
color rose in Mr. Naughton's cheeks, and his fingers
trembled as he proceeded to examine this new decoration
of his house. He evidently suspected it.

He walked leisurely and stopped at more than one
thing in the way, and when he got out of doors, looked
up at the sky and down at some vegetation on which he

jcoration

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

229

liad expended a great deal of manure, before approaching
the object which had stimulated the curiosit}'^ of his maid.
When he did at length deliberately turn to view it, he
saw a huge broadside of wrapping-paper, bearing the
words (in charcoal), " the FaytFul megistrun."

He certainly looked fateful, (as the poster uninten-
tionally called him,) when he had read this thing.

" Ha ! " said he, " parties may burn their fingers, if
they don't look out ; " and he conspicuously, — that all the
neighborhood or the world might see it, — tore the paper
first into long strips and then into little bits, which he
gave by instalments to the winds. He then walked delib-
erately up and down in front of his house, turning his
face, (considerably reddened by the activity of his mind,)
frequently to the road, with an " Hm ! " as if to show the
world that there he was, unmoved, and ready to be the
mark of any animadversion.

" Si fractus illabatur orbis (sedente ipso, sc, in cathedra),
Impavidum ferient ruiiice.''^ *

So for some time he aired himself, before going in to
breakfast.

That the impersonation of Justice in Peterport was not
weary of its efforts, was soon made manifest. Gilpin,
the constable, hinted the propriety of having Mrs. Cal-
lorau'up again, and giving her a " hauling-over."

This proposition the magistrate disposed of summarily,
by a legal aphorism : " A person can't be tried twice for
the same offence, Mr. Gilpin, according to English law ; "
and he forestalled an argument over which the constable's
pye was twinkling, and which he was just making up his
mouth to utter, by putting into that officer's hand a war-
rant, and saying authoritatively, —

* If tumbles all the -world to wrack, He in his seat will sit square back,
And take all, fearless : Crack ! Whack ! ! Thwack ! ! !- (Adapted.)

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230

THE NEW PRIEST.

"You'll see that Mrs. Frank is brought before me
with all diligence."

The constable's eye twinkled as much as e^er ; and,
puttiiij^; the writ in his pocket, before he went forth upon
his errand, he made a new suggestion : —

" She'll never be able to stand it, sir, will she, poor old
thing ? she's had a good deal o' worriment over this al-
ready, they say."

" Justice is absolute, Mr. Gilpin ; if you find her health
impaired, you will report it.'"

So the constable went about his business.

Granny Frank was at the time upon a few days' visit
to her grand-daughter, Jesse Barbury Hill's wife, and
thither the constable proceeded, to subpoena her, or rather
fetch her with him to the magistrate.

There was a little commotion in the house as Gilpin
came to it, which prevented his tap at the door from
being heard, and he walked in, accordingly, unbidden.

A child or two were playing in the sitting-room ; but
all the older members of the family had drawn together
in a bedroom at the side. The constable came silently
across, and was not noticed ; for Jesse and his wife, and
Isaac Maffen were busy about a bed, in which the shriv-
elled and exhausted old woman lay, heaving long, slow
sighs for breath. *

" Jes-se, — child — ," she was saying, with longer than
her usual intervals between the syllables, and more feebly
than usual, — " un-der — my — rump ! — heave — I — up, — I

-wants — to-

-go-

-hijrh"-

Jesse Hill, as dutifully as a child, and as tenderly as
might be, did her bidding ; and raised the slight body up.

"She's ^owe/"said Gilpin, as he scanned her face;
* that's her last word in this life, you may depend ! "

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

231

" Do 'ee think so ? " asked Jesse ; " why, she's sca'ce
got through wi' talkun ! '*

" Next time she speaks it won't be here,*' said the con
stable gravely.

" God rest her, then ! " said her grandson-in-law ; " I'm
glad we was all w'itun upon her when she goed, any-
how."

" It's good one trouble for nothing was saved her ! '*
said the constable.

So they laid her down again, decently, upon the bed,
and sent for the different members of the family, while
the constable lingered, without mentioning the errand
upon which he had come.

" What have you got here, .Jesse ? " said he, as his eye
caught sight of a parcel standing on the mantle-shelf

" Mr. Banks give it to I to bring up, for un, from B'y-
Harbor. 'E said 'twas *a mighty bundle,' so 'e said."

" Why, it's for the Parson, man ; why didn't you deliver
it?"

" He on'y asked I to bring it," said the trusty deposi-
tary ; " an' so I kept it, tuU 'e'd call, 'isself. 1 never
knowed what it was."

" Well, bad read in' '11 never spoil you, Jesse. How
long was the old lady sick ? "

" She never was sick ; not that we knowed of; but just
visitun, an' layun on the bed, as comfortable as could be,
tuU just a few minutes sunce ; — as it miglit be, two-three
minutes afore you comed in."

" Yv^'ell, she's had enough of if, if she was ready. She
might have had too much, if she'd staid longer. Is Naath
home ? "

" No : we'll wait the funeral tull Monday, I suppose, to
give un a chance to come back."

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THE NEW PRIEST.

The constable took his leave, and went to make hia
return. Jesse went too.

Both the men started back, and made a reverential
salutation, as they met Mrs. Barre, on coming into the
road. Her look was more troubled than usual.

" It's easier partin' a gran'mother than it is a husband
or a child," said the constable, shortly after.

"All so, Mr. Gulpin," said Jesse, " that's a clear case ;
you've got to part they. I hard Parson Kingman's wife
say, ' death is an alteration, surely, an' can' be helped.' "

There were some loiterers about the magistrate's prem-
ises ; — people that can always spare time for public affairs ;
and whom, now, the mission of the constable had stimu-
lated to strong expectancy. The magistrate was im-
mersed in mental and manual occupation: reading and
writing.

'' There was some one to summons her before I, sir,'*
said Gilpin.

" How do you mean ? " asked the magistrate, nervously ;
for though he got along very well with plenty of sea-
room, the prospect of a collision or conflict of jurisdictions
was a new thing to him.

" She's dead," said the constable.

" Dead I Why, that can't be," exclaimed Mr. Naughton,
" she was alive yesterday."

"And so she was the minute she died, sir ; but she
won't be again, in one while, unless the Day of Judgment
comes."

The comparison, so strongly drawn by the Almighty
between His might and the Stipendiary's " absolute jus-
tice," affected Mr. Naughton considerably.

He went to the window, (the public being outside,) and
through it spoke, —

OTHER SUSPICIOUS PERSONS.

233

" I am given to understand," said he, " that Mrs. Abi-
gail Frank, commonl)^ called Old Granny Frank, who
had been summoned as a witness, is dead. I shall,
therefore, prorogue this court, as is customary, until after
the funeral. Mr. Gilpin, this warrant is dismissed;" and
he solemnly bowed away the constable and a few of the
more adventurous neighbors who had got a place within.

" Good ! " said Gil{)in, as soon as they were in the
king's highway ; " I hope the next thing, he'll hear the
Emperor of Egypt's dead, and adjourn for a twelve-
month."

The people dispersed, (to better occupations, perhaps,)
and Granny Palasher having certified herself of the fact,
from Jesse, commented upon it as many another old
woman has commented upon a like case : —

" Poor thing ! she alw'ys seemed to ail o' somethun,
these few years back ; but I do wonder what 'ave atookt
she, at last ! "

From the magistrate's, Gilpin made his way to the
Parson's.

" The ' Spring-Bird ' has sailed, sir," said he ; " o' Tues-
day night, Jesse says ; so Cap'n Nolesworth's off."

" Is he ? " said Mr. Wellon. " I'm sorry he couldn't
have staid to help us clear this up ! "

The " little mite of a bundle," as the sender had desig-
nated it, proved, when developed, to be a quaint-looking
letter on a foolscap sheet, addressed to " Mister Wellon,
the English episcopalian minister at Peterport, to the
kindness of Mister Barbury, with Dispatch."

The clergyman, liaving read it with varying expressions
in his face of surprise, amusement, and interest, handed
it to the constable, saying, —

" You seem to be concerned in this."

1 11 ,lil

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23i

THE NEW PRIEST.

The latter took it, with a look of astonishment, and
having prefaced his work by the remark, '' Well, that'a a
queer-looking concern, any way," proceeded to read aloud,
in a subdued voice, and here and there with dilHculty, as
follows : —

" Mister Wellon, Sir : —

" Thinking you may be aware of a little surcumstance
that happened here, and knowing your concern in people's
souls, is my reason for writing, to let you know whnt,
maybe, will prove interesting. You see I took a notion
to look into this Holy Roman Religion, a might, while I's
about it, and not having any thing partiklar to do till fall
business commences. I think best to inforai friends and
all concerned, / mai/ be converted, and I may not : sup-
pose it ell be according to. I have ben in one of those
Nunneries, ye may call it. Never saw any thing tlie
kind managed better, in my life. Sister Theresy is as
genteel a lady as I should wish to see. A little accident
occurred while I's holding inspection, as you may say.
My hat, you may have taken notice to it," (" Well, this is
a pretty fellow ! " said Gilpin,) " it went and come right
out of my hand, away into the middle of the floor, in a
room where they had a young lady sick. Most every-
body carries a few notions in his hat, I guess, and so I
had a pocket-handkerchief, and a knife, and a razor, and
a comb, and what not ? and they all went sescatter. Pen-
knife, one of your Congress knives, present from honor-
able Tieberius Sesar Thompson, Member Congress, went
away off under a picture ; see it was " Saint Lucy," right
opposite the bed ; same name of your Miss Barbury :
pretty well executed, I sho'd judge ; only a might too red
in the face, supposing she fasted as I should say she had
ought to, if she was a Nun. Lucky I didn't wake the

ill

OTHER SUSPICIOUS rKRSONS.

235

sick, but, most likely, she'd had medcine, as I took notice
to her breatliinj]^, riUher heavy and dead. Should judge
they ke|) her ruther covered up. All I could see was
jest an atlom of her face and a mijjjht of black hair : should
say she ought to have fresh air. I thouglit of the short-
ness and uncertainty of human life — seemed to be about
eighteen nigh as 1 could judge; but Father Nicholas,
they call him, that showed me round, seemed to feel bad
about the accedent, and 1 come away, and took a cour-
teous leave.

Sir, I needent say to you that writing about religious
experience is private and conlidential, without it's Ji fi'iend
like Mr. Gilpin, tlie constable. Shouldent like to hurt
the feelings of the old gentleman, that's Father O'Toole,
who is willing to take unbounded pains ateaching. I told
him if he ever had occasion to call on the Governor of
Massachusetts, to mention my name, and say Mr. Bangs
of Needham that used to be. Believing, sir, you know
how to act about correspondents of a confedential char-
acter, I remain. Yours truly, and to command,

Elnatiian Bangs."

" Well ! " exclaimed Gilpin, looking up, with his one
eye twinkling, wdieu h.c had finished the reading, " if that
isn't a letter and a half! "

" These Americans have strange ways,'* said Mr.
Wellon ; " but do you notice any thing particularly in
his letter?"

"About the sick girl ? and the b^ack hair ? and about
eighteen years old ? " asked Gilpin, Tmtting these things
together with a directness that would not have been un-
worthy of a policeman of abundant practice ; " yes, sir ;
and ' St. Lucy ! ' How should that happen ? Or do you
think Mr. Bangs put that in ? "

2.10

THE NKVV PUIKST.

" Oh, i»o,** HJiid ]Mr. Wcllon ; " tliat'.s just wluit tlicy would
do, very likt-ly, if tliey wore tryiri;x to Tuake a convrrt ;
they'd Iian^ up a portrait of hor pntron-saint, as they call
it. All this coiifirrns our suspicion. Thank God it comes
just in time. I never thouj^ht of the American making
himself so useful."

"Dropping his hnt ! " .said the constable. "If that
isn't one way o^' gittinjj; into a place! That is a joke!
• Holy Roman lleligion ! * There's a convert ibr 'em !
But that sick girl "

" That's a pity ! " said the clergyman, thoughtfully, — tho
constable eyeing him curiously the while. " If we could
use his evidence "

" I take it, sir, we can use it by the time we want it."

" Ay ; but in the mean time this poor man will get en-
tangled, perhai)S, beyond help."

The constable still looked curiously and inquiringly.

"The maid, sir? Lucy Barbury?" suggested he, by
way of amendment to the word " man," in the Parson's
sentence.

" No ; I was thinking of this American, — Mr. Bangs."

" But it won't do hira any harm, sir ; will it ? " asked
Gilpin, still puzzled.

The clergyman answered: —

" To be sure, he wasn't a churchman before ; but I
should be very sorry, nevertheless, to see him become a
papist. If he should see this plot, it might cure him."

" He sees it fast enough, sir, or I'm much mistaken,"
said the constable.

" But," answered Mr. Wellon, " I can't think he under-
stands the whole thing ; and if he could be rescued "

" From Father O'Toole, sir ? The Yankee '11 take cai-e
of himself, I'll go baih We needn't trouble ourselves

^£^

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OTIIKU SUSriCIOUS I'KKSONS.

2;{7

about saving li! n, sir, any moro than a fisli from drown-
ing. If lie isn't tip to any of 'cm, he's no Yankee. It's
my opinion, liicy'll lind it slow worlv eonvcrlin;^ him."

The Parson smiled «5<)od-liMmor('dly, as his solieitndo
for J\Ir. lhin;L;s was blown away. "It's strange tiiat he
should get in there," said he.

"They've been too eurming, and not cunning enough,"
answered the constable. " They thought he'd tell every
body he'd been all over the place, and people would think
it must be all right, if they wcu'en't afraid to let un in.
Fath(n- Nicholas, there, thought he could keep un safe
enough ; btit he didn't think about his hat ! " —

So, this evening, the old suspicion, setting towards Bay-
Ilarbor, and the nuns and priests there, possessed the
Parson and his council more strongly than it had done
since Lucy Barbury was lost.

:i||!'il

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will MP. It

238

THE NEW PBIEST.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE HEAD OP

THE MISSION.

)E left Mr. Bangs at Bay-Harbor, in cliarge of
Father Nicholas, coming- from the nunnery,
which he had just inspected. Under the same
sacerdotal guidance, he walked towards the priests' quar-
ters.

Tliey passed hito the hall. Father Nicholas leading, and
awaiied, next, the result of the latter's knocking thrice
upon an inner door.

The word " Enter," surrounded, so to speak, by a sound
of bustle, — much as a word is written by painters in a sur-
rounding of cloud, — called them to the dignitary's pres-
ence. He sat, sedate, in his wide chair, — his dress care-
fully arranged in his style of state, — and was intent, in
studious zeal, upon a book. Looking up gravely from
liis work, he fidgeted a little, trying to wear a calm, high
dignity, in waiting for an explanation of the visit, —
(which, by the way, it may be thought he understood
beforehand,) — and ended with a kindly bustle of bringing
chili rs.

" This gentleman, Reverend Father Terence, is an
Anieri(!an, des(;ended from an eminent stock in the re-
public "

MR. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIEW.

231)

HEAD OF

•s m a sur-

Mr. Bang.^, — who sat with his right ankle resting on
his left knee, his chair now and then rearing 'inder him,
like a trained horse, and coming down again on all fours,
— said, meekly : " Oh, some of 'em 've got their coa^s-'f-
arms, 'n' what not ; that's beyond me ; but I know jest as
wall who my gran'ther \vas as can be. You know, I told
ye about the deacon — Parsimmon Tarbox — on mother's
side ; but, on father's side, they were Bjuigses all the
way up to Noah's flood, 's fur 's I know ; Jedidiah, and
Jelioshaphat, and Jeshimon, and Joshuy and what not,
— church-members and s'lectmen, (some of 'em,) — an' so
on, all down."

" Atavis regihus ; they are all kings and sovereigns iu
that .favored country," — (" Cer-tin," said Mr. Bangs,) —
" and he professes a desire to be acquainted with the
Catiiolic Faith, Father Terence, and, indeed, a readiness
to be converted. I bring him, of course, to yourself," —
(the dignitary bowed, with as smooth and steady a swing
as that of a pendulum, and said " Of coorse ! ") — " know-
ing that if there was any one to do extraordinary work,
that one was the very Reverend Fati ir O'Toole ; " —
(again a smooth, slow bow from the dignitary, who spoke
thus :) —

" And, by a strange forchuitous accident, what should
I be engaged upon at this identical, present mor.:>ent, but
a very tti'struse work upon that very country ! It's a
rare work, too, I'm thinkin'. I've here the second vol-
ume, which I procured with great difficul'iy through
Barney Baine, — (did ye know Barney ?) and he had but
the one. I'm not sure is there another copy iv it ex-
tanty

" You're quite recondite in the authorities you consult.
T should have thounrht that credible writers on that coun-

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THE NKW rKii':sr.

try coiiM l»c found willi loss InniMo, ;in<l in m coniplcfG
form."

"Ay; lvi(, (I'yo fioo? it's bnl Hlll(i (Ihm'vo known of
writing and tho like o' iIimI, — Ihoso Anjciikyins, — unlil
those: lafe y<^nts, (ihe n»osl o' (liitn, iIimI is.) lieinfj; all
mostly s.'ivaj^e Ind^ins. I sn|>|H>se, (willi a sniail sprinklinji;
of iMiropyins and Irisli, cerlainly.) Some o' (him took
to l(\arnini2:, 1 snp])o^<\ nalnrally, for th«> n\an hero's jrot, n
name of liis own tiial wonld ptizzh^ a Tom'hawk himself,
• — (that's one of their trihes, (Vyr know ? as they oall
them.) 'Vo ])o sih'o, the most of it seems to ho in plain
Kniilish, stH'elv : hut th<>n, d'y<' see? the jiroat l<>arnina;
that's Ikm'o, nndoid)tedly, all in the orijiinal ton^tu%" said
FatluM* (V rooh\ shnttinsr the hook.

"Have yo<i mastered the * original,' then, already, in
your rotir«Mn(Mit, and wilhont a teaeh<M'? What a fiixnro
youM have mad(^ in the Saered ('on;:;resration, or in our
Collep' at Komo, to Ix^ ^^nre ! "

Th*^ ]>ortly ])(M*sonafz:<> eompliment(>d thns, rose np to
put away the hook, while tlu^ yoim«i(>r pn(>st, with a pjravn
eom'ti^y, foUowoi' him. an<l, askinii; ])ermission to look at
the learned treatise, seennMl it, wIumi laid down, and n^ad
alond *' l)i«Mhioh Kniek<Mhoeker," as \ho anthor's name,
and added, as oonnnent, " What a Dnteh-sonnding name
it is ! "

" Yo may say that ; and ye'll rememlxM*, Ix^-the-hy, tho
Dnieh has nmeh trad(^ with th<^ lndi<'s and the neiuhhor-
im: ]>arts, and has had, tho^e many years. It's to ho
feared they've been teaehing th mi their own religion, too,
mostly."

The other incpiired : —

" Do yon Ihid this writer orthodox ? The name sounds
as if it o»ight, fairly, to ho found in the Iiuh^x : ' Diedriehius

Ml{. HANCiS HAS AN IN IKIIVIKW

211

or in our

Knit'UcrlxH'kor. Sloiijuli Niio\ji York, «[iiji('iim(iii(' lingua
im|tr*'ssM.' "

" Oh, ITh for n'rcrcncc, jusl, llint I kiM'p lln-in, — hooka
o' Ihat kind! Ii'm a h'nriiM w«Mk, — il's a very h'ariMl
work, this>, flouhtlfss, in iia way, — Imt not pound in
iiMi ono poinl. Th(>y'n' lo stand up in n Hhrary, and it's
not too oI'Ipu I hut a husy uiati, like in^^srlf, can jrct a look
Ml ihpin. It's oidy dipping; info it, lliat I'v(3 done, juf»t fo

J-^<

I Mt the niiiriow of it. Hut \\v\o is our «'X('«II«'nf friend

ready lo lluovv Ixdiind hini nil IIm' Dutch and liidyaii rc-

iJLriou," — ("Ccr-liti," asscnicd llio American,)
Inkc up Ihc old anncicut fiiilh."

an(

1 to

VV;dl, I'm looking that way, to s<m^ what I cmi mako

of if,

CXplMUHM

I th

lUicrican.

s conviction,

uuicli 'h any thiufr, fliMt I wunt, I nithcr pjiicss. 'lUv.ni'H
tluit liynui, — I do'no flic Jiatin of if, — (anyhow it'n seven
hundcrd forfy-sevcn in ' U(!vival J{liii[)sodicM ' :) —

VViioii I cnii lonvn tlii'^ IhmiI o' clfty,

Ami strctcli my liitilts, luid sour iiwiiy,
AihI hrcfitlio tiio upper siir;

'I'lmn lot tlm world go nil lo sitmsli;

I'll lift mv Ih'miI jiliove the crush,
And tiiko Inst liojd by juiiyor.

mo; name

[lie sounds
)i<'drichius

" The way I'ikh'r 'I'erluIliM 'J'aylor used fo jrivc that out
!if l^aslh.'un ('amp-JMcMMin;^ * woiiM do a hotly ^ood.
'rii(>re ! You know, he w's a ion^ kind of a slohsided
chn|), nu' when' h«^ conur to ' load o' cluy,' he wri^srled his
ihoulders, you se<', so fashion," (doin^i; it as Ik; sat,)
"an' pulled Mn' tu;j:j^ed 'f his coat, lik«! all [)Osscsscd ; hut
when he got to 'strefch my limi)s, and soar awny,' why

* 'I'his oxposltioti, usod by Mr. I'luif^s fit tlio period rif our stctry
mny give iircliiiMtlogists iin uiiexpoctod liiiit as to the ago of tin; iifuiie
and the tliiiirr.

If,

If- i >' '
If U;

>»

212

Ti!K NKW rUIKSr

\\\o mos( T oMu oom|>Mro i( (o wns, wnll, Iio up 'll> llup

unn, *lh llu^ book in it, an' ihon ('oIIum', an' kiokcd <lowii
]»is l<\u:s, josl '.s if lio VMM }»oin' lo s(i»'k flu^ Iiy inn-hook
away np (hroniih soniow'or's, an' ^'o rii»l\l \ip aOor il.
AVhy, all llio «»l(l wonuMi, *nios(, pn( riii;hl onl lo ^il hold
oC luin by (ho hools. or whal no(, sini»in' ' (ilory! ' josl a«
tiilht "m i1i(\v <'onk! stroloh. lhi(. -a^ yon say," — (no-
body bnf hinisoir saitl any lhin;i,.) — " ihis ain'l iho «pios-
tion now. Qntv^^lion is : \Vha('s aboni the shoiiosl an'
ipiiokcsl way o' ^illin^r •>< (his (\Mlh(tho rchoion ? 's you
may say."

Jn Iho prosonoo ot' ibis aoli^(' ohMMilionisl. l^'alhor 'Vvr-
on»M> looked, lor iho nionhMil. as il" iho world ihal ln> bo-
lonjjod lo had b(M>n knocked away soiucmvIkmh'. and ho
hinisoir had Ininbh^l tlown anionic: slranuo lhin<i;s and
people. {){" i'onrse his apparalns, aro;nni(M»lalive. was as
nsehvs a^ a batl»M'y of eannon ai'ainsl a. iVesluM or oilier
ineon<;riiily. lb* ahno^l in-^linelively j:;laneed aronntl al
ihe odd \ohnn<^ oi' Kniekerboeker's herelieal llishtry,
whieh lh(^ Holy V'M\u'\' {Sanrtissitnns Xosfcr.) has pnl
iij>on ihe prohibit«»ry Index, bill wbit-li he had had in hand,
belon* ihis unusual (Mu>ouuler.

FalluM" Nicholas, lor whal(>\er eaus(\ adapled hiinselC
at once U> IIk^ eharael(M' of the man. and said, with ^ra\e
ai^pri^'iation of tlu^ /VmcM'iean's piM-lormanee, (which ha<l
be(Mi jiiNMMi with as ihoronuli 7.0M as il" he had had a sly
lancv lor astonishiiii!; tin' old priest.) " Thai seems to lie
to the lil'e. Mr. Uanii»;. You appropriate l'>.e reIi<vion you
belonij; to and inak(> il your own : and il you once lake
(he Irue Tailh fairly in, no doubt will nalurali/.e thai, also.
It's just the ihiuir lor an indcjieudenl thinker."

" (tuess 1 should ; make no kind o' doubl of il ; and
(h.'U's tlu^ wav. Y«»ur folks '11 find il onl one o" lliese<la\s,

MH. nAN({S HAS AN IN I r,l{ VIIW

2(;»

niul «lo (KM'onlinir. | (rll y«> wIimI i( is: Til fnkf ji pn'lly
sticirl rliMp. Mild li(<'ll li!i\r lo iiiiliiitloii lii^ ^niliiHPM. lo
kclcli our roiil ViiiiKcr^. WIimI'm (lie iism o' ImIIum' iiImmiI

AMiikin tiiiiiloiinvM (»r innn

I of I

loiiorn. or \v

liiii

yoii limy

i'mII "cm, lo r<'||;iliM llifil lliiiik any lliiiijr o' lli(» vnlin^ n' liiiir.
\\ liy, lor', i(>^' ((MM»iisii|or iIimI llio Almi^lily, 't kiiowH wIimI.
11 ni.iirs s(Mil 'h u iitli, nlioiiM HoJ down (o llcil s(»r( o' work !
— "!' looks 's llioiioli 'i wji'iTf r(nisiHl(>nf Ihni'l i(, imw ? ''
" Yon s(>(', l<'iillu'r TcroiMM', liow llic niic!iliioli( niind
ijoi^R in lli(> Mfuno pnfli willi tlio licjif lioii," Hjiid I'liflior

Nichol.'IM, Hol(>llllll

IK IH

nisi tfii/niis rimli'rp

not

/>(,

ol llio irr<".'i

t l{

oiililtl nilir

" Yo Hoo IIh'v lif'v lo Ih« ffiii^lif Mild rf'M'^oiifvl down lo
it (or ffft lo il, '1*1 snilM In'Mor,) It'loro lliry i'Mii swulN'r
wdiMl ^•ol| iiiMV sMv 'm IIic Iriilli, 'n IIimI dr|»Mi Inicnl o'
scicMicc. ADcr m inMiTH on<M» iiiMdi^ up lii-i iiiiiid, IImmi 'I'm
no odd-j ; jrivc liiin pnnkiii Miid l<dl liiin il's ciislMid, 'n',
'f yi' want liiin lo. Ih'"1I mw^mi" Io'I, mh' <'iism all oiil-do«Mx,
T lliry tn.'ikc 'ny Itonrs mImmiI il ; wliy, T yon c'n only
convcrl 'ciii, yrr 'nH^d>'<'""'d 'mcricMiH 'II iiiMkr tin* jL;r<Mil<<«l
l(»o — lliat i^ rnllaiN lor ('Mlliolics, ajniiii. TlM-y'll lio jrsi,
tln> fnllalisi lor niiryfk'M, 'n' iinycroM, 'n' hmIiiIm, an' wlial nol.
Wliy, lake niP, say. Tic a lian'k'cliT 'rrosl licic," (sd-
lin<j: flown liis lial, and iniinij llironjrli •!'♦' molioiiH willi ITih
liMiid-*,) "Mtid llicii jcsl iiiMkc mc think 'now yon can't
K<'c, Mild I ('Mil ; so yon jcsl, nor. wluit I scr,' and then Idl
inc tlicro's a picture 'I. j)ainlc(l ilsfdl" 'n' I lake il I'r la

n |j:ospi

lIcrcMhonIs Mr. O'Toolc sccincd to have loniid his I'cct

a^ain, aiK

I lo k

<now wlicivi lie was, and he joined iiie coii-

I III

vcrsMli(Mi with an asKiirMiice t<» tlu', AincricMn IIimI he. was

well-plcased lo hear him talk IIimI way, ami that ho

* llolt. A.I', I'.ll. I'lllcHH lll(! Illldl III' Wdl'Iiy of lllf clKlllllliDd.

t (If

I' ^

!;■ "'i

It- 111

1. 'la;

;

1 ;

il:

>L.^|(

2J4

THE NEW PRIKST.

would show him sis much as he couUl roasoimbly expect
of (lie Hke of tluit."

" I s'pose I'm 'bout's ignorant o' this nunnery business
's any thing, pooty uigh ; haven't got the hang of it,
yet "

" Indeed you needn't be bolherin' yerself about these
holy houses at all, for it's small eoneern ye'll have with
them, anny way, unless ye've a sister or cousin, or the
like o' that, ye'd want to devote to the service of God ;
but we'll put ye into the direct way of learning all the
whole order and system of the Catholic religion, all out,

meself will discourse ye, and Father Nichohis, here,

he that was here, a moment since, anny way, for it's not

here now that he is, we'll all take ye in hand, and

we'll make short and sure work of ye, if ye're ready for
it," and Father Terence proceeded to lay down a pro-
grannne for the impending course of teaching.

" JNIe good sir, ye'll consider, ye know, my avycations,
in some degree ; but a jue pro|)ortion of me time sludl be
given, doubtless, to the important work ye're pro[)osing.
Yerself '11 mostly give yer whole time to it, iv course."

During this speech the Reverend Father took down his
pipe from his mouth, filled and — after a good deal of
exercise with a flint and steel, between which too great
familiarity had bred a mutual contempt — lighted it.

" Guess I c'd git ye some ' the real stuff, 'n th' way o'

t'bacca, 't less 'n cost and no commission, but, sir,

'bout this religion-business, — when sh'll I call?" said Mr.
Bangs, killing two birds with one stone, whether he aimed
at two or not.

"Ye'll just come every day, beginning the morrow—
not too early, ye know, be rason iv the church juties.
Yerself 'II desire an hour or two for early devotion and

mi. BANGS HAS AN INTERVIKW,

21')

ih\y expect

ry business
iJing of it,

ibout these

have Avilh
sin, or the
a of God ;
ng all tiie
)n, all out,

liere,

for it's not

hand, and
: ready fov
\\n a pro-
ivy eat ions,
le sluill be
proposing,
ourse."
V down his
d deal of

too great
I it.

th' way o'
- but, sir,
" said Mr.

he aimed

morrow—
•eh juties.
otion and

meditation, and will practice abstinence ; takin' yer tea or
coffee, and bread and butt(U', and a mors(;l of fish, or the
like. In the meanwhile ye'll put yer thoughts upon two
things chielly : ihci first, Will yv! submit to the Vicar of
Christ, that's His Holiness the Po[)e, — and second. Will
ye believe as the Church believes ? that's the anncient
Church that's never changed? Ye'll fuul it a great help,
no doubt, if ye consider that rason and history and the
Word of God are all upon the one side, entirely, and
upon the other just nothing at all but private o[)inion and
nonsense."

Having thus given a salutary direction to the thoughts
of the religious inquirer, the Very lleverend Father
ceased.

" Wall !" exclaimed Mr. Bangs, "if Casty-Hivy "

" Ah thin, y'are not that ignorant o' the holy Latin
tongue but y'ave got a bit iv it at the tip o' yer tooth ! "
said the Priest.

" Oh ! Casty-Divy ? That's Casty-Divy Scienshy Cook,
't used t' live — (does, now, fur's 1 know,) — -jest 'cross lots
f'm our house. — S'pose 't's this Nunnery, much's any
thing, made me think 'f her. Used to stick 'n m' crop,
's ye may say, — ye know birds have a kind 'f a thing
here," (pointing to the place and going on like a lecturer,)
*''s I said b'fore, dono what 'tis 'n Irish — that is Latin, —
wall, 't's what ye may call a sAvallah — 'n sometimes the'
undertake to git someth'n down, 't wunt go." This illus-
tration from comparative anatomy, he was giving as if it
were quite new with himself.

Father O'Toole was not in the habit of interrupting,
but he interrupted here.

" Come, man," said he, " ye shall stretch yer legs a bit
and we'll go into the chapel convenient, and it'll help on

• f! 1«M«

tj i

! ! 1

I 1;'

i, !i

:!l;il

J4»"'

il i:::l

\'m

■ > '■

n'"'! '■•

246

TIIK NEW PRIEST.

the conversion, it's likely, and be a good thing to mepelf,
at the same time, being at the beginning of an affair like
the present. Ye'il follow me, just, and do what ye see
me be doing."

Down went the reverend gentleman, as they entered
the sacred door, crossing himself, touching himself with
Holy Water, and going through a prayer, apparently, but
with a half-glance towards his companion, now and then,
who went through some performances of his own, which
bore but a very far-off likenops to those ot his prototype.

" Will ye have the kinclnesa just to employ yerself in
meditation? or, if ye please to go out, I'll say nothing
against it; I've some sjicred occupation, here, for a bit,
and I'll join ye in the course of a few minutes, it's
likely," said the worthy priest.

Mr. Bangs accepted the latter alternative, with the
assurance, " Wall, sir ; jest 's you say. 'T's indifferent
to me ; " and having occasion to look in, soon after, he
saw the pricot engaged apparently quite in earnest, in
devotion before the altar.

WheD he looked in again, he saw two figures get up,
where he had seen but one go down, and recognized, in
the double, Father Nicholas.

Mr. O'Toole, as well as could be judged, was taken by
surprise himself; and as our American drew in again
■within the chapel, he heard the last words of a short con-
versation which had already taken place between the
priests, while they came forwrird toward ti)« door. Fr-
ther Nicholas was saying, ■' Your wisdom and experience
may make something out of him in that way, which I
have no hope to give any efficien . help in, if it we'*
needed. I see, perhaps, another way in which he may
be useful."

rmi

i V

MH. BANGS HAS AN INTKRVIEW.

247

With h s eye fixed upon the strange neopliyte that was
to be, he finished liis sentence, so tluit JVIr. liangs might
have begun to think that he hiniselt' was not the subject
of discourse.

" We are together again, it seems, Mr. Bangs," he con-
tinued quietly, in the same tone and manner, " and we
meet in a good place," (crossing himself, and saying in a
low voice, as to another inside of himself, " Tabernacula
tua, quam dilecta.* This is perhaps your first visit to a
place like this."

" Wall, I must own ' never was in b't one. 'Must be
a first time. We don't have all these fixin's 'n Protes-
tant meetin's ; now th'r' ain't a relic in the whole lot of
'era, fm Massachusetts down to Mexico, 'thout 'ts a min-
ister's relic', 'r someb'dy's.f They git to heaven as well
's they can without 'em ; but lor ! there ain't 'ny com-
parison. This's one of those cathedrals, likely, 't I've
heard about."

" We have handsomer places than this, certainly, not
a few, and a good deal larger," said Father Nicholas,
smiling.

" Oh ! Yes. There's Saint Peter's at Rome :— Le's
see ; how w's it that money 'as raised ? — I've heard. —
However, that's a pooty sizeable kind of a church, cer-
tin. Ye never heard o' th' ' Old South * at Boston, did
ye ? 'T Artillery 'lections, (that's the Ancient 'n' Honor-
able Artillery) — they hev' a celebration 'n' a sermon
and what not — preachin' to 'era to shoot the enemy 'th
sof balls, I s'pose, — wall, any wpy, that house'll hold con-
sid'ble many when't's chock-full's I've seen it, jest like
huckleberries in a dumpling, where you can't see the
dough 't holds 'em together. The way they make 'em's

* TJiy tabernacles, how "bolovccl!

t Mr. Bangs seems to cOi)louncl two words.

!^ii

l:lf

218

THE NEW PRIEST.

this : take a mess o' flour, ami make it into a kind T a
batter, or whatever you may call it, and then stir in your
— wall, that ain't exactly what I's }j;oin' to say. That 8aint
Peter's must be great. You see tlui Protestants ain't
likely t' stand *ny sort o' comparison 'n the way 'f
raeet'n'-houses, b'c'se they think religion ain't s' much t*
be looked at, 's to be joined in."

"It's refreshing to hear your hearty descriptions, Mr.
Bangs, though your abundant information, upon points
with which your friends are not always familiar, leads
you a little wide, sometimes. Did you talk with the very
Reverend Father O'Toole about the houses of God?"

" Wall, he seemed t' fight ruthcr shy of 'em, I thought.
On'y wish those fellahs 't Peterport c'd see all I saw "—

" We shall arrange to send any messages or communi-
cations that you may desire," said Father Nicholas.
" Your own time will be much occui)ied at first. I've got
a pleasant family for you to stay in, close at hand here ;
and Father Terence, no doubt, will arrange hours, and so
forth."

Mr. Bangs had got into a business-like arrangement,
by which the sun of inde[)endence was to be considerably
shorn of his beams. He took it, however, very genially,
and as th" priest left him to await Father Terence's re-
newed attention, he spread a blue handkerchief, doubled,
on the ground, and taking a newspaper out of his hat, sa*.
down to read.

ANOTIIKU UKMC I-'OUNM).

211)

CHAPTER XXVII.

ANOTUICU KELIC FOUND.

HE bod stood in the little room at Skipper
Ci!oor;j;(!'s, uncliiinujed except in huviiig been
made up ; and so all other thin;j;s, there, were as
the maiden left them ; nor was the door of that room
shut.

After a sickness has been finished in a death, and after
the burial is done, those who are left miss very much the
round of duties that is so utterly at an end. They start
at fancied calls ; they find themselves putting tiieir hands
to things no longer needed ; they lower the voice ; they
listen sometimes, and then recollect that there is no one
now whose light sleep may be broken, or whose throbbing
head may thrill at a slight sound ; there is none now
wliose breathing may give token of rest from pain, or
whose faint words can scarcely wing a flight in the still
air.

And then the thought of earlier hours, and happier,
comes up, when the departed one had the same home and
the same household things with them, and shared their
joys and sorrows. Now it is not so. One form — whose
head has lain upon our bosom, whose hair our fin-
gers played with, whose eyelids we have kissed, whose
lips have found our cheeks, whose arms have held us,

2')0

TIIK NKVV I'llIKST.

wlios(« liiinds li.'ivc (loiK! so niiiny pretty tli'm^j^s or playcMl
us siicli sweet trick.i of luerryliood — whos(! look, whose
1jui;:;1i, wIi()S(! sleep, whose waking, had each sueii heaiity
of its (twii — has <j;oii(! Iik(^ m()iMii)i<; mist melted in air,
like the hluo cloud of smoke scattered lbrcv(!r ; like the
word spoken, like the bubble brokiMi.

Skipper ()eor;j:e knew nothini; of the spt dilations and
suspicions of his friends and nciijhbors, and of their infor-
mation "gained. TImy knew hitu well (Miou^h never to
speak of these to him ; and it was specially enjoined and
urged on all occasions, by the Parson and constable,
that nothiuf!; should be said to him about them. His wife
heard more — hoped aiul feai'cd more, no doubt, but yet
took her prevailin<:f feclint; from the stron^jj, steady char-
acter of her hu.>band, and never told him of her hopes
and fears.

The need of sorrowinu^ hearts (as, indeed, men's need
at all times) is faith in God, and work ; this they both
knew and acted on ; yet she would sometimes sit down
quietly to weep, and he would sometimes lean against the
door-i)ost of the little room, and lose himself in sad mem-
ories.

During this time of planning and consultation in Peter-
port, and searching for information, another memorial of
the lost girl came to hand ; such evidence as it contrib-
uted was from an unwished-for quarter. This was a silk
neck-kerchief, taken from the water a little farther down,
toward Castle- Hay Point, than where the former relic
had been recovered.

The man who brought it said that he had seen it in
passing with his punt along that shore, as it clung ^^ a
rock, and was tossed up and down with the wash. The
cloth was wet with brine, and torn in many places ; but

f ■!■

fji !■

It I

III

ANUTllKU KKLIC FOUND.

2'>\

some old fisluM-incn, who saw nixl liandlrd it after it had
hi'cii recoLrnizcd as liaviii^ hrl(»ii<j;('d to liiioy, asserted
without hesitation tlial it liad iK'ver iiec!! a weel^. in tlio
water. Its fabric was sound and ^ood, lli<»u^di it was a
{iood deal smeared willi sea-weed; and the rents must
liavc been nnKh^ bel()re it had ever ;^one into the deej).

'Die finder sliowed tiie phiee where it was found ; and
it seemed stran'ife tliat it eoidd have been (h'S(!ried in such
a |)laee, unless by one seareliin;jj. So reasoned the plain
lishermen, and they looked with much suspicion at th(»
tiling (at last) bcM^ause the man, thougii In; told an honest
story and was counted an honest neigiibor, was a Roman
Catholic, as it happened ; and though they did not doubt
ins word, they " considered," as they said, that " he might
have been put upon it unknowingly," to keep u|) the opin-
ion tiiat th(! IMissing was drowned. Tliey said, '' her
body was not in the sea, but somewhere; else."

The neighbors consulted whether they could keep the
knowledge of this new discovery from Skipper George,
and determined at least to try it. They gave the ker-
chief, therefore, in trust to the Parson. Tiic news,
however, got to the fatlu-r, as news always will, and the
next day he presented himself, with his recpiest : —

" VJ' 'ee thinks best to give me what 'ee've got, sir, I'd
be thankful over it."

lie took the relic in his hand, wiped off the tears that
fell upon it, and at length, handling it over, said —

" Those are cruel, grinding teeth, if they holes were
made by the rocks."

Nothing could b(; more expressive than what he said,
and his way of saying it, and saying nothing more. The
grinding of the tender body of the innocent, sweet girl,
upop those sharp rocks !

m ■■)

W ^!»

\i^

-*-W'

2.V2

TlIK NEW PRIEST.

TluM'c are worse teclli in ihe vvjiter ihan those of the
pharp rocks: — Did the fatlier think of those, ua another
wouKl think of th(>in, iVoin his words ? Were his thoughts
for his lost chiUl as quick as other men's ?

" I cannot think her lost yet, Skipper George," the
I'astor answereti, saying as much as he would venture.
The father still held the kerciiief under his eyes, as he
said : —

" There was a coat of many colors that had been
on a dear child, brought hoirie to his fathcir, and 'e
thought an evil beast l»a«l devoured u:\ ; but the lad was

n' dead, thank God ! — I don' know where my child

is, but Ile've rjt her."

He looked up in Mr. Wellon's face, as he finished this
sentence, and it \ us like the clearing off* of the dark sky,
that broad, [)eaceti!l look of his.

He folded the dotii tenderly, and bestowed it in his inner
jacket-pocket {ind departed. He had now two recovered
memorials of his Lucy, sinjc her loss.

His errand was up the harbor ; and as he passed out
of the drung from INIr. Wellon's, young Urston, who was
thin and pale, but had tlirown himself into hard work at
Messrs. AYorncr, Grose & Co.'s, met him, and having
respectfully saluted him, walked silently at his side, an-
swering questions only. At length the young man broke
the silence for himself.

" I think we can trace her, now," he said, hurriedly, as
if he thought he scarcely had a right to speak of Lucy to
her father. Skij^per George turned upon him an eye
mild as a woman's, r.nd said, —

" James, thou doesn' know, yet, what an old father's
heart is. See, here's an old hull wi' a piece knocked
into her side ; arid T've laid her over upon the t'other tack,

ANOTIIia; KEMC J-OIIND.

2:)3

and after a bit I'll imihbc g<!t all inoinlcd up, and li;j;ht
U!;ain, uiid then I'll j^o about, an' never fear ; but ef 'eo
keeps her on the broken side, James, afore we've ])atelie(l
lier and stanehed her, in eoruf's the sea, Jamcw, and she'll
<;o down, heavy and solid, afore 'ce can make land. 1
inus' n't think o' they oneertjiin thinj^s — " His eyes looked
forth, as he spoke, Oj)en and broad, like another sky ; —
" but ef 'ee 've any thing, go to the Parcson, lovie — our
l*areson, — an' 'e'll hear it ; " and so James Urston spoke
of his hope no more.

1 !9

f' i;

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254

THE NEW PlllEST.

fl: "SI

f -i >.'.

■■ '.;«

!■':.

U ''A

:4ff

ii if:

'!|l|;|t'illl'

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

OW, the worthy priest of Bay-Harbor, having
Mr. Bangs in his hands to be converted, felt, or
began to feel, the difficulties of that relation. To
keep np dignity and authority, to convince the mind and
engage the heart of this representative of the great Re-
public, were so many different objects in one. The case
was, in a measure, like that of the " Angli quasi An-
geli"* standing for sale in the market of Rome, whose
beauty led Pope Gregory the Great to undertake the
Christianizinsr of their nation. This individual American
WJ18 no beauty, certainly, but he was from a foreign he-
retical nation, and by his own account, scarce any of his
countrymen knew any thing of the true faith. Mr. Bangs's
account was, " Th' have made a convert 'r two. S'pose
ye' ve seen a poor f 'saken-lookin' chickin, pokin' after a lot
o' pi — ' animals, and hangin' on to 'em, fo' company?
Ye want somethin a little mite stronger." Father O'Toole
was convinced that, (as Father Nicholas also had said,)
the opportunity was a golden one, and must not be let go.
On the other hand, the ecclesiastical conibiitant, finding
himself in possession of su *'i a prisoner, who had been
taken " nee gladio, nee arcu,^^ (suo,)-\ — by no weapon of
his own — and was as multitudinous, in his activity, as the

* Anc;lcs, as if Anf]jels.

1 Neither by s\v<inl nor by bow (of his own).

Mli. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

255

3or, having
rted, felt, or
lation. To

mind and

great Re-
The case

quasi An-
t)ine, whose
dertake the
l1 American
foreign he-

any of his
VIr. Bangs's
vo. S'po.^e
i' .ifter a lot

company?
ler O'Toole
► had said,)
)t be let go.
ant, finding
3 had been
weapon of
vity, as the

eorn))any of men whom Father O'Toole's countryman
once took by surrounding them, felt the dilUculty of main-
taining the autliority and dignity, and, at tlie same time,
convincing the head and persuading the heart, as was to
be done, according to the progrannne of his operations.

Under the circumstances, he addressed himself to his
labor, in the bravest manner possible.

Mr. Bangs, whose habits and principles led him to use
time as it went, was anxious not to be unoccupied after
entering upon the work of religious conversion, and the
quiet old man was therefore likely to be stirred up and in-
stigated in a way very unusual to him, and which must
worry him somewhat, and flurry him a good deal, and
give him many solicitudes most unaccustomed. The pro-
posed convert, finding the priest's way of proceeding not
so methodical and business-like as it might be, and, at the
same time, being assured of his simple and kindly nature,
whose only relief was in its weaknesses, took upon himself
to propose that he should take a regular lesson, at certain
times each day, or at such times and as often as was con-
venient to his instructor, of whom, meantime, he managed
to l)orro\v a Douay Bible.

On the first occasion of the expected convert's appear-
ance at the converter's house, the next morning after
making the arrangement, the latter found, at the very
threshold, a reminder of the solemn work begun, and of
the new relations existinij.

The knocking at the door was answered, after some de-
lay, by a slow-moving man — probably fisherman — acting
as ])orter, who, opening the door but quarter-way, stopp d
with his body the gap through whi(;li Mr. Bangs was
about passing along witli the first rays of light, and hav-
ing, by formal question, ascertained from the visitor that

Ifl

' ! I

Hi II' 'I

m Hi:

i IMi i

256

THE NE-W PRIEST.

:l!hj;l
:illfl 4,'/

",M,r

he wislied to see the very Reverend Father O'Toole,
first showed him into " The Library," with some awk-
wardness and much gravity, and left him to wait until
the doorkeeper had found out whether the Fatlier was at
home, and whether he was disengaged.

" Tell him," said Mr. Bangs — the manner and matter
confusing the mind of the occasional domestic — " not to
put himself out one mite on my account. 'F he hasn't
prepared 'mself, I suppose 't '11 keep." The speaker,
while saying this, combed up his hair from each side to
the top of his head, with a small implement taken from
his waistcoat-pocket, and seated himself with legs crossed
and foot swinging, opposite the door.

On receiving the announcement that Father O'Toole
expected him in the opposite room, Mr. Bangs rather led
than followed the man to the Reverend Father's presence.
The occupant of the room was alone, sitting with a book
in his hund, himself dressed with the utmost care that he
ever bestowed on the adornment of his person. Thus he
sat gravely awaiting, and very grave and dignified was
his salutation to his visitor.

" ' Haven't come b'fore ye're ready, I hope, Father
O'Toole ? " said the candidate for conversion, unabashed,
or, at any rate, not remaining abashed by the formality.
Then, seating himself opposite to the Priest, with his hat
beside his chair, he gave that gentleman the inspiriting
intimation : —

"Now, air, I'm ready f'r a beginning, and you can
please ja'self 'bout goin' at it." So he cast his eyes to
the ground, and sat as demure as possible, though not
without a restlessness of the body, which was the normal
state of that macliine.

The ecclesiastic fidgeted in his dignity, and from his

IMR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

2.-) 7

not beginning at once with the " lesson " agreed upon, it
miglit be thought that his plans were somewhat discon-
certed.

" It's a solemn and difficult work, entirely," began our
priest, when he did begin ; " a very solemn and very ditfi-
cult work, that we're entering upon the extremity of, or
the borders of." At this point he stopped and recovered
himself hastily with the question : " Did ever ye meet
with a book called ' The way to become a Catholic ? ' "

" 'Tain't the same as ' Way to be Happy, by one o'
Three Fools,' I guess, is it ? ' Never read it ; but 't used
to have a picture, 'n th' bcginnin', 'f a woman whippin'
her offspring. I alw's said 'twa'n't in good pr'portions ;
woman's arm 's too long for her figger. Dono 's ye ever
saw it."

This little ramble of his disciple, disconcerted the
teacher again, it should seem, for the stream of instruction
stopped, and he began, rather nervously, to turn the
leaves of the book upon his lap. Of course he will make
a new assault. This he does as follows — adapting his
method, as he thought, to the character of the other's
mind — " Y' are aware that men are mortal ; every one
knows that."

" Oh, yes," said the American, heartily ; " ' All men are
mortal. Enumeration. And^ 's the copy-book used t'
say 'n I's a shaver."

" Sure, then, it's easy saying that some sins are mortal,
too. Therefore — "

" Adam fell in —

To mortal sin," said Mr. Bangs, by way of illustra-
tion. " 'S prepared to grant that proposition b'fore ye
proved it."

" Very good," answered the reverend reasoner, warm-

I «

I: !|

!; !!ii'it:;i

258

THE NRW PRIEST.

ing Willi succesM, " since y'tire prepared to grunt what
cainiot be denied, ye'll be |)rejiiired, doubtless, by the
same rule, to deny what cannot be granted ? "

Jl' llie triuni[)hant progress of his argument, in its for-
mer steps, was due, as it })robably was, to a happy acci-
dent, this last must have been one of the deliberate pieces
of his })lot, as he had thought out the plan of it before-
hand.

" Wall, dono 's 'ave any constitootional objection !
" Grant 't all men are nortal, 'course I deny 't the greatest
man 'n the world, wJK^ther 't's Tie-berius Cajsar 'J'homp-
son — that's the llon'able Tieberius, member o' Congress
'n District I hail from, or Zabd'el B. Williams, Chair-
man o' S'lectmen o' Neeilham, or the Pope, or what not,
aiii't mortal."

The solid floating bulk of Father O'Toole's argument
was not broken up by this little obstructive illustration ;
nor was it turned aside.

" The Church being wan," he continued, " sure, y'ave
a right to believe that it's never been corrupted."

'' Wall, Yankees are noways slow 't assertin' their
rights, ye know. Fact is, they're ruther inclined — wall,
they're dreadful t'nacious, 's ye may say."

" Well, then, don't ye see, if the Church has never
been corrnpt(Hl, then the Pojie's the Vicar of Christ ? I
think ye'll easy see that," urged the Priest, drawing his
argument close. Not being familiar with the tone and
dialect of Americans of Mr. Bangs's class, he very likely
did not readily or entirely understand him ; but the latter
seemed to accept the arguments urged upon him cordially.
This was Mr. Bangs's answer : — •

" AVall, fact, it is 'bout 's easy reasonin' 's ever I heard.
'R'membcr a fullah named Tim ."

■It

^^1

;rant what
is, by the

, in its for-

ai)py acjci-

rate pieces

it before-

objection !
le fjreatcst
ir 'J'homp-
' Congress
ms, Chair-
' what not,

argument
lustration ;

sure, y ave

rtin* their
lied — wall,

has never
:^hrist? I
•awing his

tone and
^ery likely

the latter
L cordially.

T I heard.

MR. BANGS A NKOPIIYTE.

259

*' That's a very good Irish name, then," said the Priest,
who was in excellent spirits.

" Tinibuctoo Meldrum, 's name was. Wall, 's I w's
saying, we used to argue 't a d(!batin' s'clety we had, out
't Need ham, and he proved ye covhluH 'xpect 'n/if/ht'n-
ment "n"' civliziUion from colored folks, {)'ty much like
this : ' Don't all hist'ry show that heathens and savigis
wuship idols 'n' images, and b'lieve 'n charms 'n' am'lets,
'n' beads, 'n' all kinds o' blessed things ? Then 1 say it's
as clear 's the sun 'n the cano[)y, 't ye can't educate a

nigger.

" Does the sun be in a canopy, then, in Amcrikya ? "
incpiircd the Priest, with a zeal for science that woidd be
found, no doubt, to exist generally in the human race, if
a trial vvmu'c but fairly made, " and what sort 's it, then,
clouds ? or fire ? or what ? "

" Wall, sii-, 'taint made o' silk or satin. So ye think
the Church, — liiat's the Holy Roman Catholic Church,
'course, — hasn't ben c'rupted, do ye ? "

" Sure, I think we may say we've proved that once, well
enough, anny way," said the Priest, whose easy progress
had given him great confidence, even with a strange sub-
ject, like Mr. Bangs.

" Wall, ye've ])roved it one way, fact. 'S'pose we've
got to grant 't's ben altered a mite or two, 'n the way 'f
imi)rovin' 'ii' growin' better, haven't we ? 'Strikes me we
don't hear so much 's we might, 'n Script ur, 'bout the
Holy Father, the I'ojje ; and Scriptur's rtitlicr mum on
subject 'f Indulgences and Purgatory. Dono's 't any-
Wiier's recommends usin' graven images and pictures to
help devotion ; and then it's kind o' backward — seems to
hang tire — 'bout wuship[)in' Virgin Mary ."

Here the worthy priest began to prick up his ears a

•I

VJ «'

I •■!

1 \'l..

2G0

TIIK NKW PKIEST.

little, as if he had mistaken liis man ; but he had not
time fairly to j^et rid of liis happy state of satisfaction in
himself and his convert, befoi'e he was reassured by the
latter going on, in his own way, to a more satisfactory
ending than his sentence had promised. The ending was
thus : —

" 'S you say, these things arc all real patterns o' truth ;
all is, 1 leave ; to ^ ' b* dy to sny whether 't tiou't seem
's if tl "y diibf' kwow '& much, when Scriptur 's written,
*s they do n^ v.'

" Ye'll allow," said ths! Priest, trying a little more ar-
gument, just to finish the thing up, " God has more ways
than wan, mostly ? AVell, then, in this present case, th'
other's traddition, and it's as good as Scripture itself; do
ye see that? "

" 'N' then, 's that great text, here, f ' Purgytory, 'n the
References, — Matthoo Fifth, Twenty-sixth, — why, 't's as
pat 's butter. I guess, to this day, ye don't take 'em out,
t'il somJidtfs paid the utmost fart]iui\ Come t' hitch tra-
dition on, too, 'n' ye can prove 'most any thing, 's clear 's
starch, 's the woman said."

" All ! then, I was fearful of ye, a while ago, that ye
might have got some o' the Protestant notions into ye,
that they talk about corruptions ; but here's something,
then, I'd like ye to consider, just by way of exam-
ple: 8upj)osing ye were disposed to hold an argument,
which y'are not, ye'd say the Church was pure at the
beginnijig, and corrupt after ; now if it was pure at the
first, and corrupt after, what way was it those corruptions
came in, just ? Can anny Protestant answer that question
at all ? "

The position in wdiich the reverend argucr seemed to
feel himself, was that of having his hold fast upon his

MU. BANGS A NKOl'HYTE.

2C1

^e had not
i.sfju'tion in
ired by the
satisfactory
ondiJig was

IS o' tnitli ;
don't seem
' 's written,

' more ar-

more wjiys

it case, th'

itself; do

ory, 'n the
rhy, 't's as
ic 'em out,
hitch tra-
, 's clear 's

;o, that ye
13 into ye,
something,
of exam-
argumcint,
re at the
ire at the
orruptions
t question

leemcd to
upon his

convert, and being able to deal thoroughly and leisurely
with him, Mr. JiiMigs answered —

" Way X heai'd *hat queslion, put b' your friend. Fa-
ther Nichol; s, there, t'otJKU' day, 'a this: ('t had a tail a
little mite difterent — ) ^ If iellyiou was pure at first, 'w*
I) come corrupted, 'musf lave ben a time when corruptions
come. Now ■an any body put hisfinyer on the time when
they come 'i ' 'Sti-uck me 's bein' a p'ty 'cute question 'n
I heard it."

" Ay, that's the very thing, in other words ; it was th'
othiU' way, then, meself was giving it to ye, just to put a
bit more tbrc(i in it," answered the Priest.

"'T may be 'nother view o' the same thing," s- *J L-i
pupil. " 'Bout 's much lilce \- two sides 'f a " ml Vir,
there 'n Charles River 13ri{!ge, fact."

Whether Mr. Bangs vas or was not aware, ha»^ the
two sides of a flounder, which ought to correspond, are
strangely different, — one being white and the other black,
one having two eyes and the other none, — Father Ter-
ence accepted the illustration triumphantly.

" Ay, or anny where else ! " said he. " Can anny
man living tell what time these corruptions came in they
talk so much about? Not wan or all o' them can do
it?"

" Case 'n point," said Mr. Bangs : " Casty Divy Sci-
ensliy, ye know, 't I told ye 'bout. Father O'Toole, 's
blind o' one eye, (she's pleggy well off, though, and had 's
many sparks 's a cat i'^ oold weather, — 'fact, they joked
me 'bout her once.) Wall, 's I's sayin', one eye 's blind
's a beetle ; 'tw^a'n't al'a's so, *t's grown so — ('t must be
one o' these beetles th' have f knockin' in wedges, f r
insects ain't blind, — natch'l hist'ry 'd tell 'em that ;) wall,
I guess Casty Divy 'd find it pleggy hard to tell when

'■

i '

it-.

l! !;

h 't

''1,

1, n

t I i

M.r^

,li :M

l!IJ<uhi::if

2()2

TriK NKW I'UfKST.

that blindnoss come ; tliat is, time o' day, day o' th' week,
day ()' th' month, 'n' so on."

" There it is, now," sjud the Priest ; " she can't tell
what time it came; and can amiy wan o' them tell what
time these eorruptions came, I'd like to know."

" 'F I's <;oiir to answer (hat 'n (he alhrmative, I sh'd
say the's few men e'd keep ifj) 'th ye 'n an argument. I
s'j)ose (he way ehanj^es eoni'i 'bout, 's p'(y much I'k' this :
say ye've got a Junk o' pure ice, in water 'taint altogether
cN'Mii ; wall, bymhy yc come to give a look at it, and
half 'f if, or two (birds 'f it say, 's gone in(o water; 't's
m.uir cb'.'uu'r water, l)ut 'taint ice any more. 'T'd puzzle
the old i'ox himself, 1 guess, to tell when that b'gan to
come 'bout. Or, take 'n' slew the ligger right round —
here's water, sjiy, and ye 'xpos(^ it (o tenjpera(ure o'
frezin', — i bat's i)2 Kabrenheit, — 'f it's a little mite warm,
't'll be all the better f ' the 'xi)eriment, — shavin'-water '11
do; — wall, go 'n' take a look 't fhdt, after a sik-II, 'n' ye'U
find 'twunt look 's if the cold 'd done any thin' to it; but
jest stick yer linger, or, 'f ye don't want (o })ut your (in
ger, put a stick in, and I guess ye'U lind it all cuslush ;
'f '(aint, I've misst a figger, that's all.'*

How this illustration supported (he "argument" of the
worthy converter, it was not easy for Father O'Toole to
see, and he answered as follows — rather kindly passing
by it, as the work of an obtuse but wel'-ijitentioned mind,
than rebuking it as the suggestion of a hostile one: —

"It's a very disngree'ble and tiidious i)rocess, (hen, (hat
melting .'uul freezing; and it's not oftcMi 1 tried it. I [U'c-
fer having my shaving-watter wjirm, towards having it
cold, the wny ye speak of I'll be going on, now, to give
ye instruction in a few points o' (he Catholic Faith. The
Pope's th' entire head o' Christendom — that's (aken for

o' th' week,

ejin't tell
n tell what

Uive, I sli'd

ufiirncnt. I

!h I'k' tiii.s:

i jiUo^^etlier

at if, and

water; 't's

'TVI puzzle

it b';^an to

lit romul —

)erature o'

iiite wann,

n'-water '11

("li, 'ii' ye'll

to it; but

your till

1 cuslush ;

nt " of the
)'Toole to
\y passing
)MO(l mind,
)iie : —
, then, that
t. I pre-
liavini^ it
\v, to ^ive
lith. The
taken for

Ml!. RAXC.S A NEOPTTYTK.

2g:\

granted ; T think ye were satisfied with the proof

I gave

ye on (hat point."

"Oh, yes, Father O'Toole, 'don't n('e<l 'ny /non

proof.

T's only 'stonishin' t' my mind, t' find a man I'k'

Father

Debree, there, nkickin' over Ih' traces, 'th all ffht.t

proof."

An' what traces is he kickinf]f over, then?" in(piired
the l*riest. " I didn't hear of his kiekinj; over anny
tliin;^-." The lesson was suspended, and the book wan
(inadvertently) slnit.

" Wall, he's a l>l<';2:^y smart fidlah, b' all aceoimts.
'Didn't know b't what iie'd p;ot a little mit(^ ajj^ee 'pon
some points. 'Glad to hear he's all rij^ht. 'S'pose 'twas
only 't he j^ot ruth(;r put out 'th the Prot'stants f niakin'
such a fuss, 'n' 'eusing the Cath'lics o' earryin' off Miss

l^arl

)(

'rry, there

key say

>!.»

t's t'other

way.

" And who's earri(Ml her off, then ? " asked Father
O'Toole, with some warmth.

" / sh'd like to see 'em prove 't she is can-ied off,"
said Mr. lijums.

J/-1

Gue-^s 'f 'twas Father Nicholas rnan-
nged it, 'I'll take more gum[)shion 'n tJicijre got, to lind 't
out."

"And what's about Father Nicholas?" asked the
worthy old Priest.

" Wall, 'f 'twan't f 'r his bein' under you, 'gne<s folks 'd
say he'd had his finger *•! it; but how 'd he go 'ii' do
any thing 'thout your tellin' him? 'n' nobody 'd think o'
suspedin' you, Father O'Toole. B't 's you's say in, 'bout
those sacrymunts ."

The good Priest was discomposed, and had lost his
place in the book. The American's assurance of the
general confidence in his supremacy over his assistant,
may have lielped to restore his equanimity. Presently,
in his good-natured way, he began again : —

f*""

2(1 [

TIIK NKW PRIKST.

I' I

»»

,1 ,,■
i ,' ■

''li

.!i::'fi

'i,::,:

"Well, then, there arc .seven Sacraments. Ycj'vc been
tanp^ht two, I suppose."

♦''J)on't uiulcrtake to detcrniine that point, how many
we had. Seven 's a j^ood number for yon to have, and I
pnesa ye can prove it 'h well 'h any thing else. Sh'd like
to have the proof."

" Those Protestants want the proof from IToly Scrip-
ture, mostly. We'll go to the Holy Scripture, now. First,
TIow many days was it the Almighty God creattid the
heavens and the earth?"

" Seven. That does come pleggy near, fact," snid Mr.
Bangs.

" Ah ! and isn't it exortly, then, it is ? What's the dif-
ference betwixt seven and seven ? AVell, then, yon see
it in the days o' the week itscdf. Seven 's a sacred num-
ber. Seven Orders there are, and seven Sacraments, the
same wav ; is that clear ? "

" Yes, sir, that's 's clear 's glass in *n 'clipse o' the sun,
's the man said."

" Then, Order, Baptism, Confirmation, Eucharist, Pen-
ance, Extreme Unction, IMatrimony 's seven. Baptism
gives righteousness, and faith and the like ; and Con-
firmation strengthens all, again ; and then the Holy Eu-
charist "

" That's what yc have for the Lord s Supper, I s'pose.
JMass, I guess ye call it," said Mr. Bangs.

" Indeed, y'are very right. It's the Unbloody Sacrifice,
also. Ye've heard some o' those things the Protestants
speak against the truth, about transubstantiation ; but
when ye think, once, isn't God ahnigbty ? I think- the
like of you, — a man that's in the right way, — wouldn't
find any diificulty at all, in that. lie says, ' Thh is my
Body, — hoc est corpus mcum,^ literally ; and it must be,
literallv, his bodv."

MU. HAN(JS A NKOPIIYTK.

2(5.1

'" T wnnt to know tlw wliolc o' tliat," said tlio American
"T licanl two f'lillalis armilii*; t'ollicr day, Catliolu! and
Protestant. Catholic said p'ty nnicli 's you'v(! said, jii>t
now, Latin (T'tis Latin) 'n' all ; 'n' then tin? other man
said, 'Look ahcrc ; when tlu; J.ord f'ns' said that. He had
His body on Him ; now the bread, 't H«! said 'tof, wa'i/t
a |)iec(; o' that liody ; 'n' if 't wa'n't, then 't wa'n't His
literal body, — ('f that's what yc cull it.) — That's what
the man said."

"And do yon thiidc, was be the first man ever said
that ? no, nor won't be the last aytber, so lon;^ as the
Devil 's in the world. That's what I'm sayinpr ; ye can
answer that this way : ' God's word is trne, and llimsfdf 's
almi<i;hfy, and so, where's the, tronble of Him makin;^ it
what He says?' Doesn't He make all things? and how
does lie make them? Isn't it by His word?" This
was said with real solenniity and dignity.

" That's whjit I want," said jMr. Bangs. " I want a
real good answer-, 'n case I meet him again. He'll s.ay
't's 'genst the senses "

"And are the senses to be trusted in a miracde, I'd
like to know?" inquired the Priest, with great animation
and spirit.

" "Wh' / take it, the senses 'r' the only things 't is a
mirycle to, — that is, 't's what the man \\ say," said INIr.
Bangs ; " he'd say 't's meant for the senses, I'k' the wine
at the marriage, there "

" I'm think ng its more than once you're speaking with
that man ; but i>n't it the greater faith to believe against
every sense and all senses ? " asked the Priest, putting a
deep question.

" Wall, that's a home-thrust, 's ye may say. Don'
l)'liev(! the fuUuh 'd answer that, 'f he sh'd try t'll 's heaci
I'orne off."

266

THE NEW rRIF'=!T.

"And 'twas with the Scripture, I did it, too, that
they're always crying out for," said the Priest, compla-
cently.

" Wall, the's a good many fellahs take 'n' go by Scrip-
ture, one way 'r 'nother. Th'r' ain't one of 'em 't takes
th' ben'iit o' th' 'nsolvent Act, 't don't git a good house 'n*
property f* life ; — 'cordin* to Scripcher 'bout ^failirC 'n*
f/iU'in' int' everlasfin'' habitations,^ s'pose they'd say.
The's a man wanted t' git a lot o' money t' put up s'm'
buildins, — great pr'fessor, too, — took 'n' borrowed all
'round, 'n' then he ftiiled, f 'r ever-so-many tliousand dol-
lars, (guess 'twas two hunderd thousand,) 'n', come t' look
into it, he hadn't got 'ny money to pay, 'n' one mortgage
piled atop 'f 'nother, 'n' no doin' any thing, — 'said the
buildins were 'n ornament t' th' town ; and he'd gone on
'n faith, 'n' he didn't know 'ny better, 'n' what-not, — knoo
'nough not to lose any thing himself, though ; — wall, a
friend 'f his, when the' come to see nobody 'd git any
thing, says to him, ' Look-a-here ! 'Thought you's a
pr'fessor ; don't the Bible say. Owe no man any thing ? '
So says he, ' I do7i't owe any man ; 'took 'n' borrowed 't
all o' widows 'n' orphans.' — He wanted it set down on
his head-stone, 't he w's 'provideniial instr'ment f ' puttin'
up those buildins."

" See the badness o' private judgment, now, tow'rds
having the judgment o' the Church ! " said Father
O'Toole.

" Wall, that kind o' private judgment ain't wuth much,
I guess. Common sense ain't prii^afe j adgment ; 'fact, 't's
the common judgment o' the Whole. 'Guess private
judgment 's 'bout 's good 's any, 'f 't sticks to common
pense. Clmrch wouldn't be much, 'thout tl; , I gues^. —
's I was sayin', — 'bout that text, there, ' My Body ; ' 'taint

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

267

the look, no' the smell, no' the taste, no' the feel, no' the
heft ; but 't's it.

"'S a woman 'n our town, — ('tamt the man, this time,)
— name 's Pegjxy Mansur, — 't any rate 't's what th' usot
to call her, — guod-natui'ed, poor, shiftless soul, — never did
'nj hann ; uset t' take 'n everhistin' siiijht o' snuff, —
Mac — guess 'twas Scotch snuff, come to think ; — wall,
she b'lieved p'ty much 's this Bible says, here." (taking
his Douay out of his hat.) •' 'bout Peter, 'n Matfhew, six-
teenth, eiffhteenfJi, 'w a note ^t the hottum, 't says 'same 's
if He'd said, 'n English, ' lliou art a rock ; ' on'y she went
on 'n' b'lieved 't Peter Wds a rock, cause tiie Lord said
so, 'n' He's almighty. A fullah said to her, ' Look a-here ;
do you mean to say that they coidd 'a' set to work on him
'n' hammered 'n' ha(;k(Hl 'n' what not, and made ))art 'f a
meetin'-house out of him ? ' ' Wiiy, no, I guess I don't,'
s's she. 'I don't mean 't ' • 'ooked so, 'r' acted so; but
I mean 't he wiis so.' ' \> j'l,* s's the man "

" I thought I hard ye saying it wasn't the man it was,
this time," interposed the Priest, as the familiar sound
occurred in Mr. Ban* s's story.

The interrupted story-teller smiled and knit his brows
slightly closer, and looking still to the left of the object to
whom he addressed himself, explained : —

" Oh ! 21ds 's away out 'n Mass'chusetts, 'n the States,
this was. Wall, they spoke up, 'n' says to her, s'd they,
' Why, look a-here, aunty, Wus't his skin, 't was rock ? '
so s's she, ' I guess not.' ' Wall, wus't his flesh ? ' ' Guess
not,' s's she. ' Wus't his blood ? ' ' Ruther guess not,'
s's she. ' Wus't his cords ? ' ' Guess not.' ' Wall, wus't
his stomuch ? ' ' Guess not.' ' Wus't his brains ? ' ' Guess
not.' Finally, she guessed 't wa'n't 's eyes, nor 's ears, nor
*s nose, 'n I dono what ail; and finally they come to ask

■ I-}

2G8

THE NEW PRIEST.

li •

m' U •■
Wii \1 :

*f 'twas his bones, 'n' she didn't know but 't might be 's
bones. But s's they, ' Aunty, bones ain't a man, and 't
looks I'k' pleggy small p'taters, to come down t' that. You
said the hull man's rock, when ye b'gan 'th him. ' Wall,' s's
she, ' I say so, now.' ' Then you don't say 't 's his bones
more 'n the rest-part 'f him ? * ' No, I don't,' s's she.
' Wall,' s's they, ' Look a-here, if twa'n't 'ny part 'f him,
't wus rock, 'n' you say th' man 's rock, what 2vus the' o'
rock 'bout th' man ? ' ' Why, 't's the man himself,'
s's she."

" Wall, I tell ye. Father OToole, the' wa'n't one o' the
whole boodle 'f 'era c'd answer that ; 'n she shovelled th'
snuff 'nto her nose, I'k' a dam brerdiin' away, 'n kep' a
laughin', t'll she got tired.'

Mr. Bangs's illustrations were all of the most left-
handed sort, that did not at all explain or enforce the
things they were brought to illustrate ; but rather the
contrary. The Priest saw this, and answered, with a
view to it.

" Y'are not accustomed, it's likely, to discussions of the
sort, — I mane if your mind is just drawing the way ye
said it was. I'm thinking it wanders, a little, just now ;
maybe it's better we leave off now, for it's my opinion
ye've got just about as much as ye can cleverly bear.
One thing I'd like to know : Are ye desiring to be con-
verted, as I understood ye were ? "

" My wishes haven't changed one mite, sir," said the
American.

" I think ye'll do, for a bit, with the teaching ye've had.
It's important to make an impression upon ye with the
solemnities of religion, for it's a great hold they take upon
a man, and, though I speak it with reverence, it's my sol-
emn opinion there's few places where ye'd be like to get

MR. BANGS A NEOPHYTE.

269

a stronger impression upon ye than just in my own
church, though there's lai"ger in the country, doubtless,
and finer, in some unimportant pai-ticulars ; but I'll take
ye to high mass, on Sunday next, — (the day's Wednes-
day,) — and I think ye'll be struck with surprise and de-
votion, all at wance, if ye give yer mind to it."

" Jesso," said Mr. Bangs, bowing his head at the same
time. " 'Want to see the real thing. Have heard 't aint
alw's what 't should be ; — that is, 'n thf: ^'^^ins, I mean ; —
holy candles and what not. 'Tell me tl. don't have real
candles, but things t' look like 'em. 'Taint so 'th you,
'course. Wh' I know a lot 'f 's good candles 's any 'n the
universe, f ' next to nothing." So Mr. Bangs departed.

r' «l

270

THE NEW rilTEST.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MISS DARE S EXPEDITION IVITH AN ESCORT.

^^ ISS Dare Iiad made an appointment with Mr.
Naugliton, for a ride to Bay-Harbor, and be set
himself immediately about securing a steed for
his own use on the occasion, Agamemnon, (Dunk,) his own
horse being lame. The Parson's he did not quite like to
borrow. Mr. O'Rourke sent word, in answer to a verbal
request, that " he would as soon take Mr. Naughton on
his own back, as lend his horse ; " and the exigency was
met, at length, by the engagement of Jemmy Fitz-Sim-
nions's white pony, whose regular rate of rentage was
one dollar (five shillings, currency,) a day, and who cer-
tainly made an honest day's work of it, (that is, spent a
fair working-day, or rather more about it,) when em-
ployed to go eight miles in one direction, or ten in the
other.

Mr. Naufjliton mounted, the creature brinjjinjj round
his great white head and rubbing it, with a strong up-
ward jerk, against the whole side of the future eques-
trian's clothes, on which this salutation left a gi'easy soil.
That the animal's toilette had not been neglected, was
o'vidti'!^ from the mjirks of the curry-comb imprinted
durably in the discolored and highly-scented fur of one

MISS DAUH'S KXPEDITION WITH AN KSCOIiT. 271

5C0RT.

t with Mr.

, and be set

a steed for

ik,) his own

juite like to

to a verbal

lugliton on

ligcnt'y was

y Fitz-Sim-

entage was

i who cer-

is, spent a

when em-

• ten in tbe

ging round

strong up-

:iii'e eqiies-

greasv soil.

looted, was

imprinted

fur of one

side of him, whicli fur answered to tbe adhesive mjiterial
in which it was mixed, nuieb th< same purpose that cow's
hair is employed for in mortar.

" He didn't look so good as he felt," was the owner's
assurance, who knew him best ; and, having assisted at
tlie mounting, the ownei' discreetly took himself away.

As the little beast had an inconvenient way of sidling
up to any other quadruped who might be near enough for
him to practise that mtinoeuvre u})on, the attempt was soon
made to keep him in advance. There he was so effectual
an obstructive, getting riglit across the way, that the
attempt to follow liis leading was not kept np with that
persistence with which men tie themselves to tbe lead of
})ig-headed men of standing, or submit to the flocking
of a ])rivileged governing class. Very speedily and
quietly the spirited horsewoman, with a dexterous cut
of her whip, at the right time, took the place which be-
longs of propriety to the competent.

Now, with a horse like Miss Dare's (v'hich was a good
one) in advance, it must be a mattei of compromise
if the two companions were to keep company. Mr.
Naughton, did, il: may fairly be su[)posed, his best. He
stuck his spurs into the pony's side; but from the "ffect
produced it might be doubted whether the little bea had
not the power of drawing in his nerves from the tace
of his body, as a turth^ draws in his claws. Tl rider
procured a serviceable stick, to cooperate with hi <purs,
as a fleet combines operations with a land army 'Ut the
pommelling that he was obliged to bestow to reduce a
short-lived mitigation of the vis inerticc'-'wi ..hioh the
creature moved, seemed so cruel, that he could not do
justice to that method, by faithful practise of it. At
times the pony cantered for five successive paces, but

* Mi^ht of laziness.

-'( !.,l

272

THE NKW TRIKST.

ni:

!■ 11;

it>

■y'l ■'

the amount of progression secured in this way, was mueh
what a table (beibre these clays of table-tii){)ing, of
course,) could be made to accomi)lish by having its two
legs at each end, alternately lifted and put down upon
the ground.

Our horsewoman, accordingly, could hardly help get-
ting nearly out of sight, now and then, though she waited
duly for her escort, at convenient distances; occupying
the interval for the first part of the way between I'eter-
port Riverhead and Castle- P>ay, with short visits at the
doors of two or three houses, whose inmates she knew as
being in the habit of bringing eggs or poultry, or some
such lirtle wares, to her uncle's, for sale.

Mr. I^aughton had attemi)ted conversation, most zeal-
ously, according to his slender opportunities ; he had
remarked upon the pleasant woodland smell, as they went
along the way skirted with trees, where the young birches
had come out beyond the limits of the little forest, like
children playing at a short safe distance in front of their
liomes. Again, — after an interval, — on the summit of the
hill, in Castle- Bay, whose side is precipitous to the water,
and down the face of which the road goes as steeply,
almost, as a waterfall, (or as Whitmonday Hill, in Peter-
port,) he had spoken of the lovely landscape, in which the
breadth of Conception-Bay makes so great a part. Miss
Dare's bright eye was not only open to all beauties of
nature, but had found them out long ago, and grown
familiar with them, and saw in them what nolhing but a
(piick eye, practised, could have seen ; an<l iMr. Naugh-
ton, as they paused, for a bi'cathing-space, at this look-out,
foi'got his steed, and the ditiu'ulties of horsemanship ;
for with all his ecclesiology and fuss about tapers and
altar-cloths, he had had his heart flashed into before now,

■I

MISS DAUK'S EXPKDITION WITH AN KSCOKT. 27;>

by biii'iiing ('jcs, and liad not been rej^anllcss of b«'('oiiiii);^
dross. There was his tiiir coinpanion, with the iitish of
exereise in her cheek ; iier veil flowing out upon the
wind ; her hair slightly disengaged ; her white, forehead
looking as unapproachable as one of the cliffs that hang
over the sea in the IJritish Channel; and her eyat^, with a
rKpiid Ills! re floating through thetn, like that which might
roll its tide of light about in the fabled caves of the sea.
Just now, as gazing more ihoughtfuUy than usual, or,
rather, more silently (for she alv/ays had thouglit enough)
on the deep, she sat with lovely ease and grace, upon her
horse, he might have felt as if a V(M-y sp(!cial moment had
come. There she was, all relieved against the sheer
sky; and Iku' lips, that had said so many witty and pretty
things, silent.

"Miss Dare," he said, seizing the occasion
" Beautifid ! " said she, finishing with h v Inadscape;
and then, as she turned to him, " Why, what solemn ex-
ordium is that, Mr. Naughton ? Are you going to decline
going any further? Let's both get off and walk down
this hill, and take a new start down there at the turn of
the road. Shall we ? "

Mr. Naughton's mind was surrounded and hindered
by the building-materials, out of which he was putting
together that slowest and hai'dest of coniti'uctions which
men make of woi'ds with very little cement, and he could
not, therefore, instantly get out of them ; accordingly,
though this proposal was a welcome one, as walking down
the hill together would give him ,-o much more of her
society, yet she had dismounted, ea-ily, before he was
ready to ask for her horse's bridle-rein. He was not
long, however, for his distance to the ground was very
moderate, and his heart was vigorous.

21i

THE NKW PRIKST.

,1 . , '

" Don't you recollect the dog in the fable," she asked,
"that Iwid a piece of meat, but lost it, jumpinj^ for
another ? "

The gentleman had in his mind something a great deal
more api)r()j)rinte to the pres«!nt occasion than that fable,
(of wliich he did not see the exact reference, at such a
moment;) ho had what mu>t be said, or the time for it
would have gone by. It was a (flotation ; and as he
went down, leading her horse, he got it forth.

"Ah! Miss FaiHiy, do you remember those lines of
Burns : ' We've climbed life's hill togeiher ? ' "

"■Not quite that; but a good deal like it; 'theglther'
is the real Scotti-h ; — but do please attend to my fable,
Mr. Magistrate, if you expect us to go down this liill,
thegither ; look to your Arabian courser, or you'll lose
him."

Now, though it will never do to let one's self get into a
ludicrous or awkward position in the eyes of a lady
whom he values, yet there are different ways of escaping
that ill-luck; sometimes by overbearing and putting down
circun'-tances ; sometimes by giving way to and following
them ; .-imetimes by taking dexterous advantage of them
and turning thciin to account. Mr. Naughton's wit was in
a sharpened state; he sav/ at once tliat he might just as
well cast off his quotation and abandon it to the waters
of oblivion ; as to his horse, the creature wouldn't go,
with all the appliances that he could bring to bear upon
him, and could be recovered in half a minute.

" You'd better leave me Brutus," said Miss Dare, as
the gentleman turned up the hill, holding her horse's
rein ; " I'll give him back to you, when you've got Fitz-
Simmons." "Very good;" answered Mr. Naughton with
a few hasty steps getting u]> with the pony. The little

MISS DARE'S EXPEDITION WITH AN ESCORT. 275

benst was rroi)j)iiig such jriTiss as tlin top of that plc-
lui'c^qne hill siistaincil. Tie did not look loiiiid, or tako
his toelh off iiis food, but he qni(!tly tuiiK'd towards hi-;
late i'id(3r a part of his body wliieh wore no bridle, and
was unoccupied in eating.

Grecians and Romans often made great work of it
wluin they fought, with their wives, and mothers, and
beloved maidens looking on ; but here was a fortress to
be charged that could turn faster and better than a
windmill, and bring a pair of ugly heels to the defence.

" He'll stand on his dignity now, after all that's been
said and done to him, like the boy in Wednesbury church,
that stopped the bellows, to show what part in tlie music
he played," said the ruaiden, spectator of tlu; contest of
agility and skill, then and there going on.

" Woa ! " cried Mr. Natighton, in a soothing and con-
ciliatory tone, perfectly fair in war, and trying to get up
beside the pony ; but as the moon turns one face to the
earth continually, and not another, so Jenmiy Fitz Sim-
mons's little horse seemed to follow the same laws of
gravitation, offering always to the nobler animal the self-
same part.

Mr. Naufrhton strove to settle this method of arijumcnt
by a hearty thwack, which was very fairly administered.
This manoeuvre, like a shake of a kaleidoscope, brought
about a new disposition of the pieces making our figure:
the horse, snatching up his head., whirled roimd on his
hind feet and began to go — not as might have been ex-
pected of a shrewd little fellow, that had often been
through the same simple process of reasoning upon that
point, towards home — in which direction grass was just as
cheap and good at the wayside, and every step was away
from a journey, — but down hill, though keeping the side

¥H

I :■

27G

THE NEW PRIEST.

t' 'I

I
J

noar the ganlon-rotl fence. Mr. Naughton, with dignity,
ke|)l ihe road a little behind.

When the beast reached, as he soon did, a place where
the road, being cut down, left hinistdf on the top of a
bank, he then turned round abruptly, and got himself
beyond his pursuer in the other direction.

Any one who has been through this |)rocess of catching
a slow-footed horse, with predilections for pasture, can
fancy the further progress of the pursuer and pui-sued.
The pony enacted to the best of his ability the part of
the pretty little butterHy, leading on and (duding the boy;
but on the other side of the hill from Miss Dare, several
circumstances turned to the help of Mr. Naughton ; he
had left his dignity behind, witliin the young lady's sight,
and, moreover, tin; road backward lay through the flakes,
on wliich the women were already turning and spreading
the fish, and while their being there took some nimble-
ness from his limbs, it also secured as many feet and
hands as were needed for his purpose. The ponj^ was
at length caught on the beach, under a flake, with his
face magnanimously towards the deep, and his M\ ankle
hobbled with his bridle-rein, which he either could not or
would not break. So he was recovered ; but what time
and possible opportunities had been lost ! Mr. Naughton
broke Iiis substantial stick, not as an official breaks his
staff of office, having no farther use for it, but in actual
discharge of authority upon the offender.

Miss Dare was not where he had left her : having
laughed heartily at tlie beginning and first steps of the
chase, che had gently descended the hill; had leisurely
mounted at a rock by the roadside, and was waiting at
the little bridge (or perhaps it was a ford then) before
you get to the long hill, down which comes now a later

|.r,i) :

MISS DAKK'S EXPEDITION WITH AN ESCORT. 277

way, and a les3 steep one, than that wliich alone crossed
it in that (hiy.

The view is a very fair one as you get to the lii^hcst
level between Castl<'-r)ay and Bny-ITarbor. T'pon the
left, in the direction of tlie Barrens, the eye eatclu's the
sheen ol' more than one inland lake, and on the ri{]jht
hand and before you lies large and grand the I'ay, with
lightly-wooded ups and downs between — sometimes ab-
rupt contrasts of height and hollow, — which are very
picturesque.

The air on this bright day was clear and exhilarating,
and Miss Dare and her horse alike found it difficult to
accommotlate themselves to the tardy pjiee of " Fitz," a,s
Mr. Naughton's courser was by this time called. The
gallant gentleman who bestrode this lagging steed, felt
the awkwardness of his position, but could not make it
any better. After a violent exertion of one arm and hand,
and both legs and feet, to which the pony -was an un-
willing party, the effect produced was much as if he had
been working a rude ehictrical machine ; a nervous force
was generated, which spent itself in three and a half
spasmodic, cantering steps of the quadruped. This dis-
play of scientific manipulation, the horseman hesitated to
exhi^^'it before the unappreciative inhabitants of certain
dwellings, that began to appear in the neighborhood of
the Riverhead of Bay-PIarbor, and still more in presence
of the more frequent houses that fronted the road from
that place onward, and therefore the latter half of the
way from Castle-Bay was traversed with more leisurely
dignity than the former.

"You left off at 'climbed life's hill thegither,'" said
Miss Dare, prompting her companion in his unfinished
part.

'•!

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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■

278

THE NEW PRIEST.

"Ah ! yes, and I was pfoing — if I hadn't "-

— "'been interrupted,'" she supplied, "to the Roman
Catholic Mission at Bay-Harbor."

Even in the midst of an ajtparent preoccupation of
mind, Mr. Naughton was astonished.

" Yes, and on your business too. You remember how
Deborah took Barak, son of Abinoam, with her, and how
Sisera was delivered ' into the hand of a woman ? ' "

Whether by the suggestion of the last five words, or,
however prompted, Mr. Naughton's interest even in the
strange object of Miss Dare's visit to Bay- Harbor, was
diverted to an object of his own.

There was one occult part of that Bay- Harbor road,
with a bank to the left, and a fence and some firs to the
right, a bend in front and a descent behind, where Mr.
Naughton began to check his steed with the voice, and
the steed began to stop.

" Why, what has happened to Fitz-Araby now, Mr.
Magistrate?" inquired Miss Dare, reining up and turn-
ing her horse about ; " has he dropped one of his legs, at
last, in practising that very skilful pace ? "

Mr. Naughton answered only indirectly, by repeating
his request to his pony, soothingly, —

" Wo-o ! wo-o ! wo — o ! " and stimulating him with his
armed heels, looking, moreover, down towards the pony's
left forefoot, assiduously.

In addition to the dilated monosyllable which had
been hitherto applied to Fitz and counteracted by the
spurs, the horseman must have drawn upon the bridle,
for before coming up with the larger beast, the lesser
stood still. The spurs were still actively employed, but
with the rein exerted against them were inefficient to
produce motion, and rather fastened the feet with intense

mSS DARK'S FA'PEDTTION WITH AN ESCORT. 279

tenacity to the frroiind. INIiss Daro witnessed every tiling
with a smile. jNTr. Nanjrhton's mind was not at all fet-
tered and kept down to the eircunistanees by which it
was temporarily surrounded, for he found his voice and
>poke out of the midst of them, without any reference to
Fitz, or rein, or spur.

" Oh ! " said he, " if I coidd dare to hope that you
would he persuaded to make the journey of life with me,
Miss Dare "

" Oh, no, Mr. Naui.diton, of course not," she said ;
"shall we go on to Bay-IIarbor? We shall be compan-
ions so far, and back, if you please."

He loosed his tijrhtened rein, applied, sadly, his stick
and spurs, and in sadness which he could not hide, went
forward. The answer was ])erhaps just the one best
adapted to his case ; but it did not take its specific effect
immediately.

Father Terence was at home, and kind and courteous
as usual. IMiss Dare told him directly, that she wished
his permission to ask a question at the Nunnery about
the missing girl ; and he wrote a note, — taking his time
to it, — in which, as she requested, — he introduced her,
without mentioning the object of her visit. He under-
took the entertainment of Mr. Naughton, who was very
grave and agitated, and whom, therefore, the kind-hearted
man mistook for the father of the maiden, and tried to
occupy about other things.

When JNIiss Dare came back from her interview with
the nun, she found Father Terence showing Mr. Naughton
as heartily and hospitably over " the grounds," as if
there were a thousand acres of them, all waving with
grain or larger growth, or carpeted with green herbs.

There was, indeed, a potato-garden, in dimensiona

IliiM-' ;

280

THE NEW PRIEST.

about forty feet by sixty, and as stony almost as a maca-
damized road, and a little pateh of potato-onions, of which
the worthy Priest was rather |)roiid ; th^re was a pigsty
grunting, and squelching, and squeeling, with pigs of
every size ; and there were tlocks of geese, and turkeys,
and ducks, and hens, and chickens, which certainly gave
a very cheerful and comfortable look to the premises, and
warranted the proprietor's eloquence, which the young
lady overheard as she drew near.

Father Terence, having learned, in answer to his ques-
tion, that she had not found the missing girl, and had
been informed that she was not with the nuns, met the
information with a very emphatic

" How would they have her then ? or would any
Christians act that way ? "

Miss Dare did not repeat to the Priest what she had
said to the nun, and the kind-hearted man went on to say
that he was glad she had come straight down and satis-
fied herself, for " people often took up notions that were
not the thing at all, and Catholics were not all that
bad that some Protestants thought them ; " an assertion
which, nobody who knew or even saw the speaker, would
think of doubting. Miss Dare assented to it, cordially ;
Mr. Naughton, (who was very grave and silent,) with
less animation than might have been expected.

The young lady was anxious to get away, and the old
man, with a courtesy that was well-becoming to his years
and character, escorted his guests towards the gate.

" I guess 'f any b'dy was goin' t' cut *p a caper o' that
sort, he'd leave Father O'Toole out," said a voice behind
them, easily recognized by any one who had heard it be-
fore. Mr. Naughton had heard it before ; and his gravity
became rather grim, as he walked on regardless. Miss

I-

MISS DARK'S EXPEDITION WITH AN ESCORT. 281

Dare turned round, but no speaker was in sight, though
the toj) of a hat was to he seen behind the fence, as if
the occupier were sitting there, niucli at home.

" It's a merchant from Amerikya tliat's inquiring into
the CathoHc faitli," said Father Terence, by way of ex-
planation.

" Wall, 'm beginnin' to see through it, now, I b'lieve,"
said the mercantile scholar I'rom over the sea, whose ears
seemed to be good.

"Ye'll think better o' the Catholics after finding out
this mistake," the Priest said, as he saw his visitors off.

Fitz-Siramons's pony might have been expected to go
home Jit a much better rate than that which he had
maintained during the ride to Bay-IIarbor ; but as if to
convince his rider that it was not mere attachment to
home that possessed his legs, he ])aced the street of the
town much as he had paced it an hour ago. The magis-
trate, however, was another man ; his stick was more
effective ; his spurs struck more sharply ; and as Miss
Dare, occupied with her thoughts, kept a very moderate
gait, the young lady and her escort were not far asunder.

She tried to draw out her companion, as they rode
along, but he was moody ; and conversation was very un-
equally carried on. She dismissed him at her uncle's
gate ; and, — when he was out of sight, — went down to
i\Ir. Wellon's ; but he was not at home : —

282

THE NEW PRIEST.

ciiaptf:r XXX.

ACROSS THE BAKRENS.

sOR, on the day before, intelligence liad come to
him, and this day, with Gilpin and Billy Bow,
and .Tesse in his company, (the latter leaving Isaac
Matfen in charge of the funeral arrangements,) he had
very early followed its leading. His dog, like Tobit's,
followed him.

Jt was an unsubstantial and broken story: that a man,
going across the Barrens to Trinity Bay on the evening
of Lucy's disappearance, had seen a young woman in
■white clothes at about a quarter of a mile's distance be-
fore him, going towards New-Harbor; and, on the even-
ing of the next day, she, or a like person, had been seen
at the Cove near New-Harbor.

This story did not agree with received theory ; nor
was it easily reconciled with known facts ; but perhaps it
could be reconciled with both theory and facts ; and it
was worth following.

The little nets that spiders spread were bright with
dew, and so were the leaves of the sheep's laurel and other
shrubs, and all the air was clear as air could be. It was
not yet the time for sunrise, and our party left the sun to
rise behind them, as they set forth eagerly from the place
of meeting, which was at Dick Mc Finn's, where the road

ACROSS TIIK 13AUR1:NS.

!>8;3

through tlic woods and across the Barrens leaves Castle-
Bay lor New-IIarhor.

McFiiin " had heard nothing," he said, " but a small
sketeh, just, that was passed about from wan to another,
in a manner, all round the Bay ; he could not say was it
true or no."

Just as they were leaving the place to follow the cross-
road to the Barrens, Gilpin, whose eye was very quick,
and never idle, called the Parson's attention to the road
over which they had lately come.

♦•There's that noo priest, Father Ignatius, as they calls
un," said he. *' There's something wrong with un."

Mr. Wellon looked at the new-cotner, who seemed to
be walking slowly and thoughtfully, but who was so far
off as to make it im2)ossible to detect the expression of
his face.

" Tins young Mr. Urston," continued Gilpin, " says
there's a quarrel between Father Nicholas (they calls un)
and the noo one. Father Debree charges un wi' carrying
off Skipper George's daughter, he thinks ; and he says
they weren't too good friends before. — I thinks he's too en-
lightened for 'em, or he wouldn't trouble himself about it."

" He might not aj)prove of man-stealing, even if he
believed all their doctrines," said Mr. Wellon, smiling,
and setting forward.

" The old priest mayn't ; but there isn't many like
him. — Do you think this Father Debree used to be a
Churchman, sir? "

" He may have been," said tlic clergyman ; " I don't
know."

'• So they says ; and his father used to be a high man
in St. John's. He hasn't met the lady, Mrs. Berry
since, from what I hears."

284

THK xi:w ruiKST.

'i-

• I

i''i

" You keep a pretty sluirp look-out for your neighbors'
doings," said Mr. Wcllon.

*' I've got into .lie way of it, I suppose ; but he might
do her u good turn now, relation, or no relation. You
heard these stories they got up ahout her, sir? "

"No; I know only what her letters from England say
of her, and what she has told me herself. If you hear
any thing against Mrs. Barre, of any sort, you may eon-
tradiet it on my authority ; she's a lady of the very high-
est charaeter."

" Nobody '11 believe it except the Romans, sir ; and
there's just where he ought to stop it, and might, if he
would. We can kill it among our people fast enough."

— There is iio house, unless of beasts or birds, be-
tween McFinn's and the other side.

So up the iiill and through the woods, — where the
trees of twenty or thirty feet in height look prematurely
old with the long moss clinging to them, — our party
went, at a stroiig, steady pace, and speculating among
themselves, from time to time, of the lost maiden's fate.

Occasionally a bird started, before or beside them, and,
once or twice, Jesse, who bore, beside his parcel contain-
ing food, a huge king's-arm, fired off, — gravely and
sadly, — his cumbrous piece in the direction of the little
fugitives, with no result unless to inspire confidence in
the feathered inhabitants of the woods that weapons of
that sort were rather used for pleasure than to do mis-
chief with; and to give the marksman himself occasion to
philosophize on "the toughness they birds got with livun
wild," as if they had received the whole charge of shot
unharmed.

It is about six miles through these woods before get-
ting to the wilderness, between them and those upon the

ACROSS THE BAHUKNS.

28o

other side, bordering Trinity Bay. The wind was going
upon its errand, in the same direction '.ilh themselves;
it mny have h(Mird, somewhere, of Lifcy.

About mid-way, they met a man coming from the other
side over to Conception Way, and as l.e had some sliglit
acquaintance witli our smith, the two fell easily into con-
versation. This man had heard of the lost girl, and of
the person seen upon the otiier si<le ; and he had heard
what they had not yet heard, that, at this very moment,
a sick girl, answering to tlieir description, was lying in a
house over at the Cove, — two miles or so from New-
llarbor. He thought her friends knew of it, but some-
thing hindered them from coming over.

"That's a droll story," said (iilpin, as he turned away
from his Trinity-Bay acquaintan(;e. '• I don't think it
would be long that we'd have sat still, tiiinking about it,
after we'd heard of it. Once, would have been enough,
1 think."

Little likelihood as there seemed in the story, Mr. "Well-
ou was not inclined to dismiss it summarily; he thought
it possible that it had been taken for granted, as it often
is in sickness, that intelligence had been carried, or had
found its way to those who ougiit to know. He said "it
was not very likely, but it was possible, and that was a
good deal."

Jesse seized on the story instantly, as one which grati-
fied the appetite lor something rather marvellous, and
therefore seemed to him more probable than any simpler
and more common-place solution of a strange and myste-
rious affair. Will Frank said, " there had bin amany
strange things in this world ; it was a strange thing that
Lucy was not to bo heard or sid, all of a sudden ; and
another strange thing, like what the Ti'inity-U'y-man

ilL,M

28r,

THE NKW rUIKST.

liad jii«»t atoM, miglit bo true, too. lid roiildn' take it
upon liimsclf to say it wasu', .surely." The constable
tliou;xht ''there was a better road h'adinpj to where she
was than any in tlie Barrens;" but all went forward
faster than before, to be resolved about this story.

They reach the woods upon the other side, toil throufjh
them, and come out upon the pretty shore and water of
New-IIarbor. A schooirr was Ivinj; near a stajre in
front of jNIr. Oldhame's premises, to the right ; and there
was a vessel of some size upon the ways, nearly ready
for launching. P'rom tliis last, the sound of caulkers'
hammers, though not so fast and frequent as in some
countries, came frequent; and towards that point, our
party turned their steps.

They found the merchant overseeing operations at the
new schooner, and i'"ady to ent(M' into their business,
but unable to give any informnlion. He said that he
had not been able to hear any tiling at all definite ; that,
certainly, a person might go througli a j)lace, and there
might be no more trace left of him than of the way of a
bird through the air, as the Bible said ; but as to proof
that could be depended upon, of any one's having seen
any such girl as was described, he did not believe there
was any.

The latest information which they hou received, — that
which had met them, namely, 'n the miy, — had but dis-
couraging rece})tion here : Mr. Oldhame said that he had
daily communication with the Cove, and many times a
day ; and, if there had really been any such person lying
sick there, he must have heard of it. Howc^ver, to make
all sure, it was only necessary to ask among half a dozen
men, from that place, who were at work apon the
schooner.

CROSS THE BARRENS.

287

These men, aUis, knew only of old Mrs. Ayles, who
had been bed-ridden for tiiree years, that could be called
nick, among their neighbors ; they had heard that a girl
from Conception Bay had been sick in New-IIai*bor, and
that her friends had come and got her home.

So, among them all, then, this down of fleeting, unsub-
stjuuial hoi)e was blown frotn one to another, and seemed
ijcarce worth the following. Vain chase !

If it could have been narrowed down to this s[)ot, and
tlie roads or paths that lead from it, there would have
been some end toward which to work, and limits to their
labor ; but if there should be nothing to connect the miss-
ing one with this place, then the whole waste, a little way
from them, or, rather, the whole world, was open again ;
and the world is wide.

The merchant offered, heartily, to go about with them
and make inquiries ; and so he did. They went about in
vain. They stood on the giound of the little mist, that, at
first, and afar, had something the look of substance. If
there were any thing in it, at least they could not find it.

About four o'clock in the afternoon, after refreshment
at the hos])i table INIr. Oldhame's, they started to go home ;
and as they trode, again, the same road through the
woods, toward the wide, weary Barrens, the way seemed
wearier than before.

Mr. "Wellon, who followed, was going thoughtfully up
the side of the first " gulch," when he was suddenly over-
taken and addressed by a man, whom, on turning round,
he saw to be Ladford.

" Why ! what brings you ov€ ' here ? " asked the Par-
son.

" Same that drives a good many away from home : —
fear ! " said the former smuggler. " It wouldn't do for

288

THE NEW PUIEST.

h'i '•:

'^U-

j|.'

Illy

me to come before the Justice, ri;;ht or wrong. — It'll
blow past in a clay or two. — IJiit, Mr. Wellon, 1 know
where Skipper Georges duuyhter is ! I tlion<;ht it uiigiit
be : noWy 1 know it. — I must tell it fast. — O' Monday
night, between nine and ten, by the moon, I wiw over
beyond the priests* place, there, at Bay-IIarbor, looking
at the back of that building they say U a nunnery.
Tliere was a light burning in one particular room, with
just a white curtain down against the window. 1 was
just thinking: 'there are no gratings on the window;
but it seems to me, if I could oidy once see into that
room, I should see where Lucy Barbury was kept.'
Exactly at that very word, as the thought came into my
mind, there was a sort of stir in the room, and the liglit
veered, and there was a shadow on the curtain. I could
see more than one woman, — in their nun's dress, I sup-
pose it was ; — and then there was a i)icture painted on
that curtain, as clear as the lines of a clit!" in the lightning :
there was a woman this side and t'other, and in the mid-
dle was Lucy Barbury^ just as plain as that lir-tree."
" What ! Are you sure of your senses ? "
" They've had thirty-six years of pretty good practice,"
said the smuggler. — " No, sir ; there's no mistake : 1 see
a thing, when I see it. It was as if they'd taken her out
of bed, and had her in their arms ; and there was her
face — just the side of it — and the bend of her neck, and
her lips open, as I've seen her for hours and hours, take
it altogether, when I've sat and heard her read. The
back of the hou.^e, and where I was, was pitch-dark ; for
the moon was afront, scarce rising ; it couldn't have been
plainer, and I wasn't a stone's throw off. It didn't last
half a minute, perhaps, but it lasted long enough ; and
then I was startled, and came away. I've never told

:!.. ^^

ACROSS THK BAUKKN'S.

2.S!)

a living soul, — not the mon tlmt were with mo that
niglit."

"That's a wonderful «tory!" said tiic clergyman,
"but it confirms tiic- suspicion." So saying, lie turned
round in tlie direclion of liay-IIarlK)r, wlule he wiw
sili'iitly thinliing. Tiicn turning to Ladford, witli the
looli of tiiouglit still upon his face, he aslvcd, " Wliat niglit
wastiiat?"

" Monday niglit, sir. I tried to see you that night, and
again yesterday morning, and to-day I sent a letter."

" I'm glad no one knows it," said INIr. Wellon ; " we
must work silently, and when we're ready, finish suddenly."

"My secrets are pn^tty safe with me," said the poor
smuggler, smiling sadly ; " if I wanted to tell them, I
couldn't."

" It will be time enough for this, when we must have
evidence," said the clergyman.

" IIow far do you think my story would go ? " asked
Ladford.

" I think it must be good in law. You can swear to
it?"

" Ay, sir : but my story ? " asked Ladford again, with
a long emphasis on the possessive pronoun. " Where am
I to swear ? What court could I testify in ? or what
magistrate could I go before, to make my affidavit ? "

" The question of your credibility — "

" No, sir ; no question of my credibility. Let me come
near a court of justice, or even let it be known that I
could testify, and there'll be some one to get a noose
round my neck, that I can't slip. I ought to be gone,
now, Mr. Wellon ; Gilpin would have to take me."

" We must take care of that," said Mr. Wellon. " I
won't bring you into danger."

20y

THE NEW PRIEST.

'! :l:

i'- ■\ii'-

ll,

' '

*• ■' ■ ■

.^M '0

F :r

" If I could save a life that's worth so much more than
mine — and George Barbury's daughter," — the smuggler
answered ; " if it was even by dangling in the air, like a
reef-point ; — but I wouldn't throw away life for nothing,
and least of alL just when I've set about using it to some
good."

There was nothing base in the poor man's look, as Mr.
Wellon now saw him; bur ro the pastor's eye, there
stood within that worthless raiment, and in the subject of
that sad history, one for whom the world would be no
equal ransom, and about whom, even now, there was
melodious, joyful converse in the streets of that city,
where " there is joy over one sinner that repenteth."

Neither the constable nor any of the party turned
back ; and Mr. Wellon finished his short communication
with Ladford, uninterrujited. It was not until they got
near the knoll towards the other side of the Barrens, that
he communicated ..u Gilpin the information he had re-
ceived. Skipper Charlie expressed no surprise at hearing
of Ladford's whereabouts, but said of his news, —

" Well, he's been away for some good ; that puts us od
the old track again, sir."

iii^'ii6Uitm'it6^it6Ui

s?..']

MISS FANNY DARE REPORTS.

291

CHAPTER XXXI.

MISS FANNY DAKE KEPORTS.

jEXT day, Miss Dare met the Parson walking by,
and said, " Mr. Naughton and I have visited the
Nunnery, officially ; only, I suppose that I really
ought to say ' I and Mr. Naughton ; ' for, indeed, I was
the magistrate, and ho only what the Germans call the

*I30PPflflanflCr* tlie figure of the magistrate,

at my side. 1 said and did."

Her listener looked quite curious. " Perhaps we*d
better go inside," said he.

" We'll go just off the road, here, if you please," said
she, " and you shall sit upon that rock, and I'll stand be-
fore you, as good young peoi)le ought to siand before the
clergy."

Mr. Wellon, smiling, was persuaded to her arrange-
ment ; and when this disposition was accomplished, she
went on : —

"I got a note from the old priest. Father Terence, who
is a kind old man, and saw the chief of the Sisters, and
asked her, point-blank, — while she was expecting me to
propose to take the veil, — whether Lucy Bai*bury was
there.'"

(The listener was hearing, attentively.)

" Poor thing ! she couldn't help being a woman, if she
was a nun, and she couldn't keep her blood down ; and
so she stammered ' No ! '"

III

292

TIIK NEW PKIKST.

« Did sho ? " he asked.

" Yes ; and 1 think, lioncstly and truly ; and I'll tell
you wliy I think so. I ask('<l lier, next, if Lucy had
been there ; and that tiinc^ she di<ln't answer at all ; and
when she recovered herscilf, referred me to Father
Nicholas for information."

" Did you see him ? "

" Oh dear ! no. I thou2jht I could do without him ;
so, then, I and my double came away, leavinpf Father
O'Toole to the society of a convert of his, whose voice
came over the fence like a breath from the shores of the
Great Republic. So, there is the re[)ort of my woman-
work ! Can you make any thing of it ? "
lie sate in deep thought.

" I hope I haven't done any harm," said she, at length,
after waiting, in vain, for him to speak.

" Excuse me," said he ; " I had lost myself; — Oh !
yes, we can use it ; — but," he added, " it's a dark thing,
and we have to go very carefully, and, as you say," he

added, smiling, '• icisc/t/. Fatlier O'Toole knows, of

course ; and Mr. Naugliton ? "

" The Priest knows that I did not find her, and rejoiced
that I was ' satisfied,' as he supposed I was."

" And Mr. Naugliton ? "

" He only knows what the other knows ; perhaps not
that ; for his mind seemed to be otherwise occupied while
Father Terence and I were talking; and, all the way
home, he never referred to it."

That little rogue, Fanny Dare ! talking so coolly of
]Mr. Naughton's mind being occupied ; and how does she
suppose it was occupied ?

" That's good ! " said the clergyman. " He needn't
know it, yet."

MISS FANNY DARE REPORTS.

5on

le, at length,

" No, i)oor man ! lie knows nothing about it," said

Fann^ Dure^ —

The Parson sniiled ; " You say ' i)oor man ! ' T- thac
tiio cx|)ression of a woman's sympathy because there iti
one point in whieh his curiosity hasn't been indulged?"

Fanny Dare slightly blushed. A figure appeared, at a
distance, upon the road.

" There's Mr. Naughton," she said, preparing to go.

The pastor went on his way down the harbor, and
the young lady back to Mrs. Bar re's.

Mr. Wellon and the IMagistrate, meeting half-way, ex-
changed a few words with one another, and then Mr.
Naughton canic^ on, while the Parson continued on his
way. A sound of steps drew near, as of an approaching
magistrate.

Presently, from among the shrubbery and creepers,
Miss Dare's voice came in song ; the air was much like
that of " Saw ye Johnnie connit ? " ada[)ted freely, and
the words of her song were these : —

He needn't

llore poos Love! Now cut him clear,-

A weight iibout his neck — !

If he linger longer here,

Our ship will be a wreck.

Overboard ! Overboard I

Down let him go !

In the Deep he may sleep,

Where the corals grow.

He said he'd woo the gentle Breeze, —

A bright tear in her eye ; —

But she was false, or hard to please.

Or he has told a lie.

Overboard ! Overboard !

Down in the Soa

He may find a truer mind,

Where the mermaids be.

294

THE NEW PRIEST.

Mmh

He sang us many a meny song,
While the breeze was kind ;
But he has been lamenting long
The falseness of the Wind.
Overboard! Overboard!
Under the Wave

Let him sing, where smooth shells ring,
In the Ocean's cave.

He may struggle; he may weep;

We'll be stern and cold ;

He will find, within the Deep,

More tears than can be told.

Overboard ! Overboard 1

We will float on :

We shall find a truer Wind

Now that he is gone."

The melody of that oice of hers was so sweet that it
did seem as if the air would keep it up, and not lose it.

Mr. Naughton may have turned himself about ; cer-
tainly he did not go by, up the road, that day.

HIGH MASS.

295

CHAPTER XXXII.

HIGH MASS, WHOSE " INTENTION " WAS FOR MR. BANGS,

AND A SERMON.

Jr. bangs remained at (and about) the Mis-
sion premises at Bay-Harbor. So fast had the
convert advanced in his zeal (perhaps not yet
in knowledge, which time would assure) that he had
really never yet been present in a Roman Catholic
Church, in the time of worship, except on one occasion,
in the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, "down in Fed'ral
Street, 'n Boston, 'n' then he on'y had a chance to see
some holy characters, — Bishops and so on, he supposed,
with queer-lookin' caps on their heads, — may've ben
pooty enough when they used to be the fashion — and
crosses down their backs, and diff'rent colored clo'es on ;
— he couldn't git into a pew, for they were all chock-full
of Irish pad — native Americans, — with pad-locks on the
doors ; and he had to come out b'fore meetin' was over."
Mr. Bangs was, in short, " as fresh as a pun'kin 'th the
rind on, day b'fore Thanksgiving," as he himself told
Father Terence.

The reverend man, as we have intimated, felt a little
awkward, sometimes, in dealing with his novel subject.
The way of thinking, style of expression, temperament,
of the American, were all strange to him, and he did not

296

THE NEW PIIIEST.

■'m

la •:

quite know liow to manage with a scholar of the sort.
The very ease witli which the sacred work went on occa-
sionally perplexed him. Mr. ]^angs described his pro-
gress as that of " a full team an* a horse to let ; " and in
different words, changing the figure, (for Mr. Bangs,
though not as v/itty as Sheridan, perhaps, had his way of
getting up beforehand little variations of the same saying
or sentiment ;) and he gave his excellent preceptor in
holy things to understand that he " wanted to git right
through, 's quick 's wus' consistent."

We say that he kept about Bay-Harbor ; for he did
not, by any means, confine himself to the place of edifi-
CiUion, but did " a little mite 'n the way o' huntin' up
business," (especially among Father Terencre's co-religion-
ists,) for the purpose, as he said, of " keepin' up the cir-
culation." He made excursions, therefore, far and near,
returning, at intervals, to tilt his chair and talk with the
reverend converter.

Father O'Toole had no thought of losing his hopeful
pupil by throwing obstructions in his way to the truth,
which might dishearten so brisk a man ; and he only
wished to do all things with that sober solemnity that
suited his own feelings and the dignity of his character.

On the great occasion of public worship, which, as we
have said. Father O'Toole had in prospect for the special
benefit of Mr. Bangs, he spared no effort to have things
as they ought to be. To be sure, he could not muster so
strong a body of clergy as he would have liked, (for Fa-
ther Nicholas had an engagement, and was out of the
way ; and none of the clergy from other stations hap-
pened to be in Bay-Harbor, as they sometimes were, and
he could not well ask any one to come for the day,) but
he made a good show of force notwithstanding. He man-

HIGH MASS.

297

aged to have his sacristan, an acolyte, a couple of boys,
and — a Master of Ceremonies ; and all in costume. This
latter, it must be confessed, was not a clergyman, as, ac-
cording to rule, he should be ; but he wore a surplice, and
that is a good deal. The Master of Ceremonies, — where
there are a dozen clergy or so, apt to forget some of the
minute details of their performance, — is to know every
thing and remember evary thing, and be on the alert for
every thing : when to bow, when to bend the knee, when
to take the censer from the bearer, and give it to the cel-
ebrant and back again ; when the deacon is to go to the
priest's left hand, and when he is to station himself behind
him ; to take the pax from the subdeacon, and to give it
to somebody else ; when the sacred ministers change
places, and when they take off their caps, and when they
put them on again ; when the deacon dotf's the folded
vestment and dons the stole, and when he puts off the
stole again and puts on tiie folded chasuble, and so forth ;
in short, where everybody is to go, stand, kneel, speak,
be still, and twenty things beside, ingeniously contrived
to give everybody something to do, and that something
different from what his neighbor is engaged with.

Father O'Toole might have got along very well with-
out such an official, and indeed, except that he was deter-
mined to go beyond himself, would not have thought of
introducing one, any more than of inviting a cardinal over
the water to help him ; however, he had one for this occa-
sion, and drilled him to the best of his ability, beforehand.
He gave the important functionary, also, a small paper to
keep about him, on which the priest himself had written,
in printing letters, some chief and principal directions
and hints, for the information that he was to impart, and
the signs that he was to make to himself, the Very Rev-
erend Celebrant.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

Supported by these accessory and inft;rior ministers,
the worthy Priest came, very red and dignified, out of the
sacristy, and proceeded to the choir, in orderly ari'ay, the
organ (a hand-organ, left on trial in the place, with a
view to its purcha.-e) playing Handel's " Tantuin, ergo."
It was soraetiraes said of Father Terence, " that when he
got his great looks on, the Governor reviewing the
troops was a fool to uin ; " this day some thought that he
outdid his Excellency and himself put together. He
took the Holy Water at the sacristy door with less of
honest " recollection " than was customary with him, and
he put on his cap again, after that important ceremony,
to march to the altar at the head of his troops, with the
decided gesture of a Lieutenant-General or Field Mar-
shal — I mean such an one as wears the uniform or bears
the baton onl '■ in peaceful fields of trainings and evolu-
tion, and is com[)etcnt to visit the Greenwich Pensioners
or review the Honorable Artillery Company of London.
So did Father O'Toole, on this great day, in the eyes of
Mr. Bangs, who was favored with a most advantageous
place for witnessing every thing.

The good priest went down, at the lowest step of the
altar, with his white-robed flock of attendants about him,
in successive alightings, like sea-gulls round one of our
ponds in the Barrens. He went through his crossing and
his confiteor and absolution as usual, except that, with the
honest solemnity that he commonly carried into the con-
fession of his sins and other solemn acts of worship, was
mingled to-day a flurry, occasioned by his consciousness
of the unusual coraplicatedness of his arrangements.

There was some blundering on the part of his subordi-
nates, in bringing him the censer, and taking and giving
the pax, and things of that kind. The master of cere-

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HIGH MASS.

200

IS and givinj?

raonie.-? j?ot tlie candles put out when they should Imve
bet'n lighted, and so on ; but when he eaine into direct
relation to the Priest himself, he was as inconvenient and
obstructive as an unaccustomed sword, getting between its
wearer's legs. The Church, with a wise appreciation of
its children, treats them as children ought to be treated —
leaves to their memories such weightier matters as the
degree of inclination — viz: "moderate" or "profound,"
. — and to be sure and cr^^s the right thumb over the left,
when one stands, junctis manibus, at the altar, and so
forth ; but how to find his book, or take it, or know where
to read in it, she does not expect of the priest, but com-
mits to the memory of the master of ceremonies, when
there is one.

The prompter was always inclined to keep at the most
respectful distance, except that once he rushed zealously
to the celebrant's side, to assist him in rising, and planted
his foot so dexterously on some part of the sacerdotal
dress, as to counteract his own purpose and the best
efforts of Father O'Toole. He proceeded, with the most
excellent intentions, to take the book, at the proper time,
and to point out the places ; but, in the first case, he got
the edges of the leaves to the left hand, instead of the
right, — (lamentable blunder !) — and, in correcting it, got
the book upside down, — (a thing of less consequence) ; —
in the second case, he pointed out, with the most zealous
hand, the wrong place, and turned the leaves at the wrong
time.

In short, the day being warm, and the congregation
large, and Mr. Bangs's spiritual welfare depending upon
the performance, the worthy priest was hot and flustered,
before he had half finished his morning's work, and his
attendants were in a state of confusion and depression,

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which ma<le them bow whr:i thoy ought to have made
gomiHt'xion, (and tliat on botli knees,) and kept them sit-
tin;j; when they oiij^ht to have been on their feet.

On the other hand, the or^an turned and j^ave its
sounds, and the singers sang, sometimes unaccompanied,
and sometimes in concert with the instrument, histily.

It was not a part of Fatlier O'Toole's usual i)ractice to
have a sermon ; indeed, the current report of him was
that he was a " tarribhi hirn'd man entirely, and, ow that
account" — (singular effect of a cause !) — " had been re-
commended by his spiritual superior not to preach." He
was satislied, for the most part, with ofluiiiig uj> his
plain mass and prayers ; iiiid, in church, he seldom said
a word outside of the Ordo and Canon, except to publish
banns and give notices. He was not in the habit of de-
nouncing from the Altar — kindly man ! — either his Protes-
tant neighbors or backsliders of his own.

On this day, he felt called nj)on to stir up the gift that
was in him, and deliver himself of a message. His text
was in Psalms, Ixvii. 32 : Ethiopia prcBveniet manm
ejus Deo. Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hands to
God. From these words of Holy Writ, he proceeded to
establish the following points, — though he did not divide
his discourse into any heads : First, that there was only
one church, and the Pope was the head of it, as a neces-
sary consequence ; second, that the Mass was beneficial
to the dead and the living, by reason that both of those
classes of men could secure indulgences for every mass ;
third, that Latin was the language lor the niO-ss, as any
man could see by listening to the words of the text ;
fourth, that the glorious Mother of God was rapidly gain-
ing that preeminence that the whole world, as well as
Aythiopia, would soon give up to her ; fifth, that convents

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301

wore not bad, and no good Cjitliolic would think of foix!-
mrr nwy one to ;^o into a convent, Catholic or l*roteslant,
(upon tliis he dwelt Ion;^est ;) sixtli, that confession was
not that bad thing that was rej)resented, but was a great
Htiinnhjs to the soul to keep it down, and was it not
a great convenience for i>aying the dues, twice in the
year ?

Having thus exhausted the subject, argumentatively,
he proceeded to a i>racti('al application of it. He said he
need not be telling hi^ audi(3nce how long ago those words
were spoken, for they would not be able to recollect it ;
nor where Aythiopia was, because not one of them knew,
most likely. (At this point, he remembered that Mr.
Bangs possessed a good deal of general information, and
cast a rather uneasy glance at him. The latter, begin-
ning, in a low voice, to " bound " the country in question,
was put to silence by certain truculent looks, and other
more threatening demonstrations, on the part of some of
his neighbors.)

The reverend preacher went on, immediately, to say
that there was another country they had heard of, whose
name ended also in A, and began with the same letter,
mostly, as that in the text, which was beginning to stretch
forth her hands to God and the Church ; that converts
were beginning to come in, as would soon be seen ; —
(some of Mr. Bangs's neighbors here looked dubiously at
him, taking pains to see him fairly down to his feet ;) — •
that St. Patrick was the great converter, — under the
Empress of the Universe, — (in which connection, he di-
gressed a little to prove that that great man was an Irish-
man, and not a Frenchman, much less a Scotsman, —
this argument, perhaps, might better have had its place
among the logical deductions from the text, than in the

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THE NEW PRIEST.

w'ip|)li('ation, but did not come r.miss wliore it was ;) — that
th<^ coiinlry In; spokft of, rosomhlcd that mentioned in tho
text in another r(»s|)e('t, as havirif^a {^rcnt number of black
men in it, — tliough there were many that might properly
be calh'd white.

Finally, he applied his exhortnlion closely, by reproving
many of his hearers, who were imperfect Catholics, for
being too soon for stretching out their hands to shile-
laghs, and the like, much as if they were brute bastes,
instead of Catholics ; and he hoped they would sooner
stretch out their hands to God. So effective was this
latter part of the discourse, that not a few of the congre-
gation, after the manner of their race, made a public ex-
hibition of themselves, by way of hiding from the pastoral
eye, and the ecjnsorious looks of neighbors. Mr. Bangs,
during these last sentences, had sunk his head upon the
back of the seat before him, and mad? an occasional noise,
which the good-natured speaker, and other indulgent per-
sons, took to be the sound of a choking, by excess of feel-
ing. Some, indeed, thought that the American had gone
to sleep. — The sound ii v have been one still less appro-
priate. — We leave the question to the discrimination of the
reader; only saying, further, that Mr. Bangs confessed,
afterwards, that " it was pleggy close in there, fact, an*
consid'r'ble 'f a smell 'f incense an' tobacca, an' what not."

It was an evidence of the ease w^ith which a public
sjteaker is misunderstood, that some of the audience, after
going out, — although one wop'd think that the reference
to America had been sufficiently explicit, capped, as it
was, by the allusion to the slaves, — yet some of the more
literary of tlie audience, standing at corners, drew the
conclusion, from what they had heard, that, as -^ythiopia
and ^yrin bes^an with the same lett(;rs, the latter was soon

HIGH MASS.

303

rs, drew the

to throw off the bloody English yoke, and set her foot
on the proud, heretical tyrant's throat.

The excellent priest, when all was done, had recovered
his habitual kindly equanimity, and, instead of looking
vain or conceited after the display of reason and rhetoric
that had just come from him, honestly took upon him a
double share of humility, which ought to have disarmed
hostile criticism of his sermon, had there been any such.
He felt satisfied and comfortable now, having felt h's own
force, and made proof of his priesthood. Cordially ho
saluted his ministers, on his return to the sacristy, made
a hearty bow to the cross, and, without taking off his
vestments, fell earnestly down upon his knees, and made
his llianksgiving.

He helped Mr. Bangs to a correct appreciation of the
whole, by 8up[)lying information on several parts, and,
among others, he exjjlained to him that white was the
color appropriated to festivals of Our Lord, Our Lady,
and saints not martyrs ; that, for seasons of penitence and
others, different colors were appropriate-
Mr. Bangs being anxious to know the penitential color,
and being told that it was violet, explained his curiosity
by saying that " he had heard tell of folks lookin' blue,
and had thought, likely, that was where it come from."
His next remark was more to his credit : he " presumed
tliat violet come from violatin' our dooty, most likely."
Father Terence complimented him on the derivation, say-
ing tliat it " had not occurred to himself, — or, indeed, he'd
forgotten it, having that much on his mind, — but, indeed,
it was much that way that the word sea, in Latin, came
Irom maris Stella,* (that's Maria, of course,) because she's
the queen of it ; and it was a good offer at a Catholic
derivation."

* Star cf ilie sea.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

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CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE GRAVEYARD MAKES STRANGE MEETINGS.

■/)HE day appointed for the funeral of Granny
^ Frank's remains came on. The dinner-bell at

Mr. Worner's had rung some time ago ; and there
had been flying for some hours, at half-way up tiie flag-
staff near the church, the white cross on the red ground,
which is the signal for divine service ; in this case, (half-
hoisted,) of a funeral. The flagstaff stands at a good two
or three minutes' walk from the church door, upon the
highest point of the cliff that overhangs the water, at the
height of a hundred and fifty or two hundred feet, from
which the signal gleams out far and wide, — down harbor,
up harbor, over to Indian Point. The rounded back of
this cliff, landward, is like the round back of a breaker
fixed forever ; and, at a musket-shot behind it, is another,
whose upright front we see, stayed, in like manner, ere it
broke. Between the two, half-way from each, passes the
road, — as Israel's road through the Red Sea is sometimes
painted, — between two mighty waves.

The flag went doAvn, the funeral procession came along
down the short hill beyond the church, with eight men
bearers, and the children from the schools ; the rest being
mostly women. It passed, like a long sigh, into the church
door as the priest met it there, and disappeared.

THE GRAVEYARD MAKES STRANGE MEETINGS. 305

lETINGS.

At the same time, another scene was going on at the
side, unnoticed, very likely, except to t^iose who had a
part in it.

The little road from Marchants' Cove comes steeply
up into the main, just opposite the church- tower; and up
this road Mr. Debree was coming from Mr. Dennis
O'Rourke's house, which lies at its foot. He stopped at
midway, seeing the funeral, and, having saluted it respect-
fully, stood still until it should have pass^jd into the
church.

Mrs. Barre and little Mary were coming from the
other quarter, (Frank's Cove,) hand in hand. They
came to the point of meeting of the two roads, opposite
the church-porch, just as the corpse went in, but did not
join the company ; and when the space was empty on
which the mourners stood but now, still were the mother
and the child on the same spot.

To little Mary the solemn tramp of children, and of
elders, and the black pall, typifying the night which had
closed a long day, shut out all other objects ; and she held,
with both her hands, the one her mother gave her, and
looked in silence on the silent show.

When it was all gone by, the sadness had passed with
it, and she came back to present life. The point at which
she entered it again was here.

" How cold your hand is, dear mamma ! Are you
going to die ? "

Her mother's hand must have been icy cold, for it was
one of those moments, with her, when the blood is all
wanted between the heart and brain. The Priest, whom
she had sought and found, and by whom she had been
cast off and put aside, who had met her little daughter in
the path, and to whose hand she had sent the letter, was

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THE NEW PRIEST.

Standing but a hundred feet from her, on liis way towards
the spot where she had set herself. There is a point, —
one chance in million millions, — where the wide wander-
ing comet may meet a world and whelm it ; (God will
see to that ;) but here was a point at which she met this
Roman priest again. Drawing her child up against her
knees, she turned, and in the middle of the way, stood, in
gentle, sorrowing, noble womannood, in front of Mr. De-
bree, as he came up.

With her pale face, the dark hair coming smoothly
down, and her full eye lighted with a soft brightness — her
paleness, too, set off by her close black bonnet — she looked
very handsome — ay, and more — as she stood there, draw-
ing her child up against her knees ; and this was one of
the great times in life. It matters not for the surround-
ings ; it may be Marathon to Miltiades, or Thermopylas
to Leonidas, or Basil to John Huss, or Worms to Luther,
or a blind alley to the drunkard's daughter, or the plain,
square-cornered city street for the deserted maiden, or as
it was here.

He slowly came up, as pale as melting snow, straight
up the hill, and, as if there were no other being in the
world, or rather, as if he knew exactly who were there,
he never looked at Mrs. Barre or the child, but as he
passed into tlie main road, bowed his face, all agonized,
and said, as he had said in Mad Cove, " I cannot ! I can-
not ! "

She did not wait there, but raising up her eyes in
mute appeal to God, as if she had done her duty, and
needed help and comfort, for her work had made her
weary, she turned away, and, with a very hurrying step,
went, as the funeral had gone, into the church.

Having risen from her private prayer, she had sate

THE GRAVEYARD MAKES STRANGE MEETINGS. 307

down, and was composing herself to take a part in the
most solemn service that was going forward. She rose—
for they were singing — the children there all sing — " As
soon as thou scatterest them they are even as a sleep and
fade away, suddenly — ." It was very sweet and sad
music, and JNIrs. Barrc had fresh memories of losses ; but
suddenly, at that very word, to many a person's astonish-
ment in the church — for even at the burial-service many
a one had seen her come and saw her now — she looked at
either side of her ; then all along the rows of children in
the foremost seats, and then, laying down her Book, went
softly and hurriedly out again, as she had come in.

This way and that way, on the outside, she gazed ; but
there was no sight of little Mary, of whom, as the reader
has already fancied, she was in search.

" I sid 'er up i' the churchyard, ma'am," said a girl,
who, happily, had not yet jiassed by, divining the mother's
thoughts and fears ; and before the words were fairly
said, the mother was gliding pp the steep way to the
j)lace, (pro|)erly c/rave-ytivd, for it was not about the
church.) A woman — one of those good-natured souls
who can never see trouble without leaving every thing to
help it — had been moved by her distracted looks, and had
followed her distracted steps, but at a slower rate, and
found her seated by the entrance of the yard, looking
steadily and straight before her. The neighbor, (who
was no other than Prudence Barbury,) said, " Shall I go
fetch the little maid, ma'am ? I see she, yonder, wi' the
praste, Mr. Debree, they calls un."

To her astonishment and bewilderment, — connecting
one thing with another, — the neighbor had her offer
kindly declined.

" No, no, thank you ; don't call her," said Mrs. Barre.

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TiiK NKW ruiKsr.

How strange it was <l><*^t having missed her and sought
for her, the mother shoukl be satisfied when she had
found her in sueh iiands !

" Siie's brought him to my httlc boy's grave," ^^^^^ Mrs.
Rarre, again.

" Don't *ee want any thing, ma'am ? " in(|uired the
neighbor next ; and this otVer was (U'elined with so much
feeling evidently crowding up behind the words, that the
neighbor letl wondering, for sympathy.

Thus she sate still ; JMary being inside the inclosure
with the priest. How strange it must have been to her
too, that while she luM-self was so far ai)art, the child had
secured for herself the eompanionshi]) of this man !
Truly, how bless<Hl a thing it is that there are these chil-
dren, in this evil and formal life, to break through, some-
times, and snatch with their sure and determined hands,
flowers that for elders only blush and are fragrant within
their safe gard(Mi-li(Hls and borders !

IMeantime there came up the ste(^p hill the nmsic of the
hymn which here they sing, or used to sing, from the
churchdoor up to the grave.

Up th(i steep drung with wattled fences on each side
securing the gardens of different owiK'rs, they climb and
sing, pausing after each verse, and thus they reach the
graveyard on the summit of the cliff or rocky hill, which,
beginning nearly o[)posite the flagstaff cliff, goes down
the harbor, sheltering the clmrch from the north wind a;^
it goes. The graveyard has but a single outlet, and,
however it happened, so it was, that the funeral had filled
that single pas^^age, and passed with the priest in his
surplice at the head, into the humble, waste-looking })lace
of burial, before JNIr. Debree had left it. There were a
few trees, here and there, as small as on the uninclosed

m she luul

music of the

TIIK GKAVKYAKI) MAKKS STRANGE MEKTINGS. HOO

land beyond, and bcliind ono of tlH'S(3 tlic, Romish prio.st
had taken stand, an<l lilHc, Mary staid witii liim.

It is not to ho, siip)K)S('d tiiat so stran^(! a visitor should
pass unnotit'(Ml, allo;2;('th('r. Tlirrc \v<'ro sonic worncMi in
the i'ompany that cotdd not keep their indipiation down
at the si;j^ht "of tlie like of him in their chun^hyard."
They did not know how th(^ service could go on until he
had been " asked his manin."

The knowled^jje, however, that Mrs. liarre, whose little
danj^hter was in company with the obnoxious strarifi^cr,
had joined tin; fiuieral procession, spread itself soon, and
tenth'd to (piit^t the irritation ; the grave voic(! of Skipper
Oeorge, — who, for his nephew's sake, was in the funeral
train, — quelled it.

" N'y, friends," he said, turning round, in a pause of
the singing, (and all w(!re silent as he spoke,) "'c'sagood
gentleman ef 'e be a Uojnan itself. 'E's been i)roper
fcelun to me, sunce I've Jihad my loss ; an' 'e never med-
dled wi' my religion. It wasn' make believe, I knows
well, by the feel."

The hymn went on, ending with the Gloria Patri as
they reached the grave.

A good many eyes, during the sid)lime services at the
open earth, turned toward the stranger very likely ; but
whosoever saw him, saw him respectfully standing, un-
covered, like the persons immediately engaged in the
burial.

liy the time the olfiee was (!nded, and the peo[de began
to turn upon their heels and set their caps to go to their
several homes, and while it was asked " Why ! didn't 'ee
see un ? " it was discovered that Mr. Debree had been
the first to leave the place, and was gone. In that ([uar
ter of the yard where he had been, the mother was se(.'V

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THE NEW PRIEST.

with her recovered child, stooping over a grave smaller
than that just filled, and some of the nearer by-standers
(nearer, perhaps, not quite by accident,) overheard
Mary saying that she "had showed him dear little
brother's place." The general opinion expressed by one
mouth and assented to by others, was to the effect that
that foreign priest was to the speaker's " seemin," and to
the general " seemin, a relation, someway — very like a
brother; mubbe the lady was some o' they kind herself,
once ; " but then^ that " he never took no notice to she,"
was admitted.

The little child was very still, while her mother, hav-
ing risen, stood looking on the mound of earth which wore
no greenness yet. She gave her mother time to make to
herself again, out of that clay, a fair boy ; and to fondle
him with motherly hands, and deck him with his disused
garments once again ; or time to gather at this grave
the memories of other sadnesses. Some of the female
neighbors sought, meanwhile, to solve their question by
asking little Mary, apart, " ef that praste — that strange
gentleman — was her uncle," in vain ; she did not know.
The pastor, looking in that direction, said nothing to
them, and left them to each other ; and when all were
gone away, except the eldest son of the last dead, Mrs.
Barre kissed the green sod, as little Mary also did, and
they two, hand in hand, departed.

" I asked him to go up and see it, mamma," the child
said, " and so he went, and he was very kind, and he
cried ; I saw him cry, only he didn't talk much, and 1
think he doesn't know how to lead little children by the
hand, as Mr. Wellon does."

MR. WELLON TRIES TO DO SOMETHING.

311

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MR. WELLON TRIES TO DO SOMETHING.

S things stood, it appeared that, if any tiling was
to be done about Lucy Barbury, (to any pur-
pose,) Mr. Weljon must set it going ; for the
Magistrate's operations were rather desultory, and without
satisfactory result, or promise of it ; and the magistrates
from Bay- Harbor and elsewhere had only consulted and
dei)uted one of their number to come to the spot and in-
quire and examine ; and since his return from Peterport,
(where he had gravely and dignifiedly walked about, and
taken notes and compared them with Mr. Naughton's,
and heard depositions of the father and such of the
neighbors as knew nothing about it,) the magistracy nad
drawn in its head and claws, and left only the Peterport
Stipendiary (shall we say its tail ?) in action.

Yet now was the time to do, if any thing was to be
done. A watch had been secretly kept up by trusty
men (young Mr. IJrston, .Jesse, and many others in turn)
about the Priests' premises in Bay-Harbor, from the
afternoon in which Ladford's information had been re-
ceived ; but there ought to be a search there, immedi-
ately ; and next, wherever else there might be occasion.

The difficulties in the way were very considerable, and
even formidable ; but Mr. Wellon was an Englishman,

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stout and honlthy in mind and heart as in body ; ho was
a thorouj^li friend, and (what takes in everythin"^ in one)
he was a faithful pastor. Accordinn;ly, he told Gilpin,
, " We can't take care of consequences ; we must make out
what our duty is, and do it, to our very best, and leave
what conies after to God."

Attorney-general Kay came to Bay-Harbor ; and, not
long attei his being settled at his lodgings, Mr. Wellon
made his way to him and secured an appointment for a
private interview. At this, he went through his case,
which the lawyer heard attentively, and without asking
a question until the statem(;nt was ended ; making notes
and taking down the names of the different persons who
could testify, and the nature of the evidence they could
give. The Parson went over, with the lawyer, the argu-
ments of probability. The Attorney was of opinion that
the girl might have gone, of her own free will, but that
she had not done so was argued by the fact that there
had been no communication from her since, — a thing
which the priests or " religious " having her under their
control would have been anxious to have her make, icJher
than underlie the suspicion of a felony instead of a mis-
demeanor ; then, that they had not carried her off against
her will, he thought, because of the want of motive; —
she was no heiress.

The clergyman argued steadily ; mentioned again young
Urston's relation to Lucy Barbury ; his abandonment of
the preparation for the priesthood ; Mrs. Calloran's char-
acter ; — but his great argument was the fact that she had
been at the nunnery. The iawyer showed him how the
arguments of probability affected the fact : " A suspicion,
on the whole unlikely, is to be established by what sort
of evidence ? You bring evidence to show (imperfectly,

MK. WKi-LON TRIES TO DO SOMETHING. 313

but as far as it shows any thing) that the girl, whose in-
tercourse with her lover had been broken up, of her own
accord, (for she went alone, in a crazy fit, if you will,)
went away from her fatiier's house, and along a road that
leads to her lover's door, and to the water-side ; no pre-
vious concert, nor any meeting or understanding since,
between the two young people, appears ; (the young
man's whole conduct and all the circumstances go against
it ;) that road leads by her lover's house to the water-
side ; the next day a cap belonjpng to her, and which
had been worn by her on the day of her disappearance, is
picked up on the shore ; another article of dress is picked
up from the water later. That case, as it stands, looks
more like one of suicide in a fit of derangement, than
any thing. Then you've got some other things to bring
in : the prayer-book burned, and Mrs. Calloran's equivo-
cations about it. Now, of these, you may suppose the
book to have been in her hand, and dropped on her way
to the fatal spot ; and the woman's different stories, (if
she had found it and wreaked her dislike uj)on it,) would
not be very strange."

The clergyman listened sadly to this presentment of the
case, which had, no doubt, many a time forced itself upon
him and been thrust out of his mind.

" Now, on the other hand," said the lawyer, "given, an
old nurse of resolute character and a bigot to her faith,
and a father fond of his son ; both — granny and father —
disappointed at the failure of cherished praspects of am-
bition for that young man ; then, on the same side, an
unscrupulous priest, having great and active talents, shut
up in a little room ; obsequious nuns ; with a girl uncom-
monly gifted in mind and bod^i coming across the reli-
gious prejudices and principles of all, and the interest

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TIIIC NEW riilEST.

and cherislicd pliiii.s of some, — (I tliiiik I've put it
stron^jly eii()ii<;h,) — if Ji chiiiKH; olUfrs, will they snatch
this "^irl up, aiul iicep her in «hjnine(!? In your theory
of wiuit iiiis b(!en done, 1 behevc you h'jiv(^ out the futlier
of tiie young niJin, entirely, and be<^in at the granny,
{Duxf(emin(if(t<'(i;*)i<hii,aiH\l\M\n'\oM, and the nuns,
manage it anu)ng them. That is one su[)i)()silion ; another
is (or may be) this : —

'* Th(^ pai'lies before mentioned, — of the first ])art, as
we say, — old nurse of the young man, and his father, or,
if you will leave out the lather, the inu'se and the ch;rie,
are eonspirafors with the girl, to bring her out of the
Chureh to Popery ; she runs away, at the first ehance, in
her sick-room clothes, and is secretly carried to the nun-
nery at Bay-IIarbor.

" The first of these suppositions is possible, but unlikely ;
because, beside all kindly feelings, common sense would
teach the priest, if not the woman, that it'.s a trouble-
some, unprofitable, and dangerous business, keeping a live
prisoner, and as dangerous letting one go. There have
been cases of prisoners so kept, certaiidy ; but they are
so rare, as to deserve to be left out, in the consideration
of probabilities.

" Then for the other supposition of the girl's having
consented with them, appearances seem to me against it.
There are cases enough of this sort; women are inveigled,
and a [)riest can be found, — without looking, — to take her
in, (Virgil, again, changing one letter, confugium vocat :
hoc prcetcxit nomine culpam ;'\) but they would let the
parents and the world know, and could we in such a case
suppose the lover likely to be ignorant? — You observe
that I have yet made no account of the young lady's
(Miss Dare's) information, nor of the American's, nop of

* A woman was leader in the deed. — Vino.

t Shelter, he calls it : with this uauie he cloaks the wrong.

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MR. WKLLON TRIKS TO DO SOMKTMING. .TlTx

Laclford's, not bocnuso I think them of littU; conscqnnnco,
for I think Ihcm v(My iinporlant, nltof^fther, and Ladford'a,
and perhaps IJan;^s's, s('|)arat('ly. Upon thi; c.haractor
of tliose men rests tiie wiioli; bnrd(;n of proof: — it may
he enoup;h to make prohahlc an irnprobahh; hypothesis. —
I shonld be j^hid to s(!(; th(^m."

Mr. Wcllon stated witiiout reserve the case of his wit-
nesses. " Mr. Bangs was making some religious inqui-
ries in Hay-IIarbor," (at this iiis hear(ir smiled,) "William
Ladford was afraid to be known," (liis h(!ar(;r looked
grave :) the clergyman went on to s[)eak of the ti(i which
seemed to bind I^adford to Skipper (jJeorge ; of the irre-
proachable life that In; hud led, and his a[)par(!nt peni-
tence, the good esteem of his neigld)()rs, and in short, so
described him, that the hiwyer b(!came quite interested
about him. " Let me ask," said he, " (it siiall do iiim no
harm,) was he a smuggler?" (" Y('!i" said Mr. VVfOlon.)
" His name then is Warrener Lane ; we've heard of him ;
his case is a good deal better than it usc^d to look, for I
noticed that his chief accuser, who was hung the oth«!r
day, retracted his accusation of Lane ; but he is in such
a position, that not only he might be put to trouble him-
self, but his evidence could be thoroughly and irreme-
diably impeached. Now I'll think the whole thing over.
You bring me these men, (will you? — Ladford, on my
lioiior, — ) to-morrow. I'll d(!tcrmine after seeing and
hearing them, and if the smuggler is the sort of man,
we'll get his pardon."

Mr. Wellon thanked him heartily.
"By the way," said the lawyer, "I don't see any thing
of the new priest in your affair ; — Debree, I believe his
name is now "

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" Do 3^ou know him ? " asked the clergvman.

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THE NEW PRIEST.

" To be sure I do. I knew him from a boy, and a fine
fellow he was. Ilia fiith(!i', you know, was a member of
the Kxecutivc Council, Ibrmerly Lieutenant-Colonel in
the army. This was his only son. Mrs. Neilson, and
Mrs. Wilkie, and Mrs. Collins were his daughters. This
young man went to Oxford and aiterwartls took onhirs.
IIo then went to the West Indies and married there, I
believe, had a fortune left him by his mother's brother,
dropped part of his name, and then — I never heard how,
— changed his faith. I think his wife must have died
there. — That young fellow was one of the noblest beings,
years ago, that I ever knew."

The clergyman sighed deeply, and said that Father De-
bree was already much beloved in Peterport.

The next day Mr. ]3angs, having been intercepted in

one of his business tours by the secret guard, consented

to come to the Attoruey-general's lodgings, and there went

through his examination. His way of getting to a

Buceinct mode of speakinir was this: —

Q. " Were you near Mr. Urston's house on the even-
ing of the Fifteenth instant ? "

A. " Wall, as far's I can be sure o' my pers'nal ident'ty,
I guess I was."

Q. " Please to answer directly to the question. Were

you

pi>

A. « Wall, I guess I wa'n't far off."
Q. "Once more; Were you?"

A. with a smile, " I was." So on, about the women
that night, and the nunnery and all. He was desired to
wait after his interview with the Attorney-general.

Ladford, very humbly and most intelligently, gave his
statement. The lawyer drew him out a good deal in a
kind way, and the man let himself be drawn out.

* \im

MR. WKLLON TRIES TO DO SOMKTIIINO. 817

Wlien he heard of the pardon, he said with tears,
"Tiuiiik God! That's tlie 'one other thla^' besides fiiulin''
Skipper Geor;^«!'s (hiii;rl,ter, that I spoke to you about,
Mr. Wellon, t'other day. I should hke to die a free

iiiiiii

'I'he end of all was that the Attoruoy-ijeiioral 8ai«l, —

"The warrant will be in tJ,; hands of the deputy .her-
riff in half an hour; he'll c-a'cute it as soon as iu; can,
conveniently and quietly. You must get this Mr. Iianj»s
safely out of the way till the evening, that he may not
put them on their guard."

On coming out, Mv, AVellon was sounding the Amer-
ican, wh(!n the latter tin-ned round and said, —

" Look a' here, Mr. Wellon ; you want to know if I'll
keep still 'bout the judgi , and what not. Yes — I guess
I will. 'Twun't touch Father O'Toole."

I
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318

THE NEW PIJIEST.

r'Jil

CHAPTER XXXV.

A STATION AT HENRAN's INN.

)ATHER DEBREE had celebrated mass and
vespers on Sunday, in the unfinished chapel at
Castle-Bay, and had given notice of a station to
be held at Michael Henran's public-house in Peterport,
on Wednesday following, in the afternoon.

This inn stands opposite Beachy-Cove, on the other side
of the road from Mrs. Barre's, and on a good deal higher
ground.

A straight drung goes up from the road into an open
space about the house, a moderate-sized building, long for
its thickness, painted white some years ago, and looking
well enough adapted for the inn of such a place. For
hospitable purposes it has a room down stairs (beside that
occupied by the cobbler — nay, shoemaker,) — and two
rooms on the next floor also.

The inn fronts nearly south, like almost all the houses,
and has a door in front with a smooth stone before it, and
a door at the east end, that looks " down harbor." There
is a southward view (over the little grove of firs, fenced
in on the other side of the road) to Sandy Harbor ; the
upper part of that harbor, Wantful, being alone seen over
the rocky ridge, which like that of Peterport grows higher
as it goes down toward the Bay.

A STATION AT HENRAN'S INN.

319

le other side

Beyond this nearest tongue of land (and rock) may be
seen others, though not divided to the eye at this height,
by water, and far off tlie southern border of Conception-
Bay, beautiful in its silent rocky strength and varies' out-
line. Inland, again, lie mysterious-looking, many-colored
mountains of broken rock, shaded with deep crevices
perhaps, or with the dark-green " Vars " * and other
never-changing forest-trees.

The scenery, at the time of which we write, was over-
hung and hung around with far-off heaped clouds, turned
up and flecked with crimson, with the bright red of the
furnace and tlie pale red of the shell, grandly and gor-
geously as ever clouds were .painted under any sky. It
is a sort of scenery, — this of a splendid summer's sunset,
— which by its drawing out the eye toward the horizon
and upward toward the sky, stretches the mind as well,
(it may be backward to memories far left behind ; it may
be forward to far hopc^.s, or thoughts of tilings beyond this
earth and this earth's life,) and gives to all minds, unless
insensible to such influences, a tendency to mysterious
musing.

A little company had gathered round the inn, before
the time, and had been here waiting ever since, while the
afternoon had passed away. The priest had not come.
The foremost were a number of old women, adjusting
every now and then some difficulty of slight character, as
one might judge, and some of them grumbling in a low
voice.

B Jiind these elders and athong them were an old man
or two, then some young women, very silent, for the most
part; some of them looking quite absorbed and earnest,
one or two whispering and perhaps discussing the ap-

* Firs.

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THE NEW PJHEST.

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pearance or the character of a companion, or of the
veterans in front, and one or rvvo of them occasionally
mischievous in joking " practically," as the phrase goes,
pulling a shawl or ribbon for exampls, or inflicting sudden
pinches unobserved. Below again, — about the door, in
side and outside, — were a man or two, reserved and medi-
tative, smoking a pipe apart, or leaning silently against
the door, or on the fence outside ; and many younger men
talking together in low tones and passing homely jokes on
one another.

At length there was a sudden change of state among
these little groups ; the priest passed through them,
hastily, explaining and apologizing for his being late.
Then the noise of feet that, when restrained and tutored,
only made noise the more methodically, succeeded to the
other sounds, and the wdiole company soon disappeared
above.

The office of Vespers passed, in English ; and after-
ward, the congregation having gone out, the priest seated
himself near the table on which the crucifix was standing
and the candles burning, and beside the open doorway
leading from the larger front room to a smaller one
behind.

Mr. Duggan, the clerk, sat at the opposite side of the
large room, reading in a low voice, (perhaps the VII
Penitential Psalms.)

Presently, one by one, some members of the late con-
gregation came into the back room from the hall, and
kneeling at the backside of the partition, made their con-
fessions.

One old body planted herself upon her knees not far
inside the door, counting the beads of a rosary of which
every body knew the history, which was repeated or

A STATION AT HENRANS IXX.

Sin

alluded to, every time the historic beads appeared ;
namely, that it was of disputed and very uncertain pro-
prietorship; and being the only one possessed among the
neighbors in a certain part of the harbor, was now in one
family, now in another, and unhappily had attached to it
as many feuds as any belt of Indian wampum passes
through, though not so deadly. Jiowever, the present
holder was making devoted use of it just now. Hail
Mary after Hail Mary went over her lips and through
her fingers, in a low mumble of the former and slow
fumble of the latter, her head bowing and body swinging
alwnys, but with a slight difference, at times, indicating, as
well as the larger beads, when she was engaged with a
pater-noster.

One by one had passed away, after conR.'ssion ; the
evening had been wearing on, and had grown silent and
more silent ; the neighborly men who had gone into the
lower penetralia of the inn to have a chnt and smoke,
and, in some cases, a drink, had mostly gone and left the
place ; the stairs seemed empty ; Avhen there came in at
the door below and up the stairs, a dark figure of a
woman. Mike Henran, tlu^ host, half asleep as he was,
catching a half-glance at something unusual passing by
the open door of the room in which he and an exhausted
friend or two were sleeping or dozing, got softly up, of a
sudden, out of his nap, and walking to the doorway,
looked up after the late comer, and then, lighting a new
pipe, sat down to wake and sleep again. The shawl, the
black dress, the hood, the veil, concealed her face and
person.

The old body and her beads had clambered up from
the position in which we have seen them, and, having
staid their time at the priest's side, had hobbled back and

mh ;

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322

THE NEW PRIEST.

passing through the door, had heavily come down stairs-
observed by Henran — and departed.

As the old woman passed away, looking most likely,
rather at her precious rosary than any thing beside, the
female, who had just come up the stairs and was now
standing beside the doorway, and between it and the out-
side window of the entry, turned with clasped hands and
stood in a fixed posture, as if, through the dark folds of
her veil, her eyes were peering forth into the great
solemn night, down into which the far, far, earnest stars
were casting light as into a great sea.

Against the door-post, the lonely figure leaned, her
hands still clasped ; and then, raising her silent, shrouded
face toward heaven, she steadily and strongly set her
face forward and went in to where the priest was. Here,
in the middle of the room, she paused ; Father Ignatius
neither moved nor looked up, as she stood ; the clerk
breathed very hard in a deep sleep ; and still she paused.
At length, not looking up, nor moving, but sitting with
his eyes fastened to the floor, he said : " Why do you
stay ? Tm waiting for you,"

ivn stair.'i—

THE TRIBUNAL OF PENITENCE.

323

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TRIBUNAL OF PENITENCE.

)T is a tremendous place, this Tribunal of Penitence !
Be it at St. Peter's in Rome, or in the Pope's
chapel, or in one of the deserted churches of the
Cumpagna, or in a little squalid chamber, any where on
earth, the walls of deal or masonwork are brushed away,
as with the back of the Almighty Pland, in preparation
for this miniature foreshapmg of the Last Judgment: the
canopy of the dread deep of space is spread above ; a
pavement of rare stone-work is laid down below : " a
throne is set, from which come lightnings and voices and
thunders, and around which is a rainbow, like unto an
emerald, and in sight of which is a sea of glass like to
crystal; and four and twenty ancients sit about the
throne, clothed in white garments and ivearing crowns of
gold; and on the throne there sitteth One."

Here is to be laid bare the bottom of a deep profounder
than the Mighty Depth of Waters, strewed with more
wrecks of precious things ; and, in this presence. Sin
that brought Death into the world, — whose meed is
Death, — and for which everlasting Ilell has been pre-
pared, — Sin is here pardoned, and an angel standing here
records the everlasting Act of Grace ; the Divine Spirit
gives tlie kiss of peace to the forgiven soul, and Heaven

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324

THE NEW PKIEST.

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and Earth here open into one another. Tremendous
place ! Here, and here only, is the appointed place,
where sin may be forgiven.

Or, Stay ! The Throne is here, and all the dread sur-
roundings of the LiOiU) God Almighty — but in the seat
of the Eternal King, INIaker and Judg'o — a worm ! per-
haps, upon God's seat, a serpent, glistening and gloating!

Suppose this seat to be usurped ; suppose that God has
never given power to man to sit here and to compel
souls before him ! 77/6/1 — What thkn?

The candles burned there and tlie Priest sat there.
The clerk was fast asleep, ajiparently, with his book
between his listless hands, his head upon his breast. Tlie
murmur of his recitation was no longer heard. Those
still hours of tlie night had come, in which there seems to
be less obstruction between soul and soul.

She came forward with her two hands clasped, and her
veil hanging down before her face. She came up to the
front of the table, and turning her veiled face toward the
Priest and dropping her clasped hands, stood still.

All was still ; but some intelligence seemed to reach
the Priest, although he never once looked up.

A deep agitation seized his frame ; but presently he
sat more erect, still looking on the floor, — very pale, —
intensely agitated.

"Waiting for me?" she asked, in a clear, low, most
mournful voice, repeating the Priest's words. There was
a pause of hesitation or of recollection, and then the
words came from iier slowly ; but the pause beforehand
and the deep, breathing, agitated, earnest silence of the
listener were fitted to m;ike intense the interest of the
words when she began to speak and while she spoke.

Her voice had in it that tender touch which lays itself,

TIIK TRIBUNAL OF PENITENCE.

325

warm and living on the heart, like a dear voice from
home ; from happy childhood, from sad friendship ; from
early, unforgotten love ; from reverend admonition, given
long ago ; from cheering exhortation of some one that
trusted in us and hoped from us ; that tender touch,
indeed, whicli is made up of all the pure and holy, and
deep, and true, and honest, that a voice can carry with it,
as a wind that hlovvs over whole fields of flowers and
fruitage.

Some voices, — at some times, — are such ; such hers
was.

She spoke again, slowly and sadly.

" Are you waiting ? Is it not / that am waiting ? Is it
not I ? "

She sank slowly upon her knees, and rested her clasped
hands upon the tiible ; but her veiled face was towards
him and not toward the crucifix. Her voice was touch-
ing and pathetic, to the last degree. The air seemed to
pause upon her words before it hid them out of hearing.
There was a sound as of tears dropping upon the floor ;
but there was no sob ; there was no sigh.

There seemed a noise, as of a person moving, not far
off; she turned about, but no one could be seen except
the clerk, asleep, and breathing heavily, as before.

Oh ! what a weary thing is " Waiting ! " and her words
seemed to come forth out of sorrow unutterable. This
was a strange prelude to a confession ; but from such a
voice, in giving forth which the whole life seemed to be
concerned, who could turn away? He had prayed, as
one might have seen ; but his features still wore the look
of deep agitation which had suddenly come over them
when she first approached him, though now they showed
how strong a hold was laid upon the feeling, to keep it
down.

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THE NEW PKIEST.

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" Have you been waiting ? " said he, with a pause
after the question.

" Yes ! Waiting for ray hope to feel the sun, and
bloom," she answered, with a voice rushing fast forth,
floated on tears, but scarcely louder tiian the habit of the
place permitted ; — " waiting for tlie life that is my own ! "
— and then her voice began to drop down, as it were,
from step to step, — and the steps seemed cold and damp,
as it went down them lingcringly : — " or for trial, — disap-
pointment, — whatever comes ! " and at the last, it seemed
to have gone down into a sej)Uichral vault. Her head
sank upon her two hands, — still clasped, — resting upon
the edge of the table ; a convulsion of feeling seemed to
be tearing her very frame, as she kneeled there, in the
garb as well as the attitude of deep sorrow ; but it was
only one great struggle.

A motion of the Priest, — perhaps to speak, — and a
suppressed exclamation, recalled her, and she reared up
her woman's head again, and spoke : —

— " But I am not come to talk of sorrow," she said,
and paused again.

^^ Sister/" said he, in that pause, (not 'Daughter,')
(and, as he said the word and rested on it, — his voice agi-
tated and full of feeling, as if it had a throbbing life of
its own, — the one word- expressed many sentences : an
assurance of sacredness, of love, and of authority, at
once,) " What have you come to this place for ? To seek
for peace ? "

" To seek i/ou, Brother ! — or, should I say Father ? "

" Call me as you will," he answered, gently and mourn-
fully, not hastily ; " but what can you gain, in finding
me?"

" I have gained something already ; I've found, within

*ls;

THE TRIBUNAL OF PRNITRNCE.

327

tlie cold prlson-walla of your priesthood, your heart still

1' • >»

^'"Sister!" snid h<^, a^jjain, witli su<!]i an emphasis and
pause upon the word, as if he in(?ant that it should speak
its whole meaninnf, while his voice was agitated as before,
" what right have I here, except as a priest to hear con-
fession and give comfort to the penitent? and what — ?"

— " What right have / here," she said, in a voice
so low that it did not seem intended to interrui)t what
he was saying, though he suffered it to interrupt him.
" Have / any right here," she repeated, more distinctly,
when he ceased to sf)eak, — " except to confess ? "

That gentle, broken woman's voice ! Oh ! what a
power there is in woman's gentleness, when it pleads of
right !

The thing said, or the tone, or all, moved the Priest's
whole being, as the convulsion (slight tliough it was) of
his body witnessed ; but he did not speak.

" Have I any riglit ? " she said, still again, in the same
sad pleading.

He then spoke, in a voice that had little of his strength
or authority in its sound, though it appealed to what
might be, perhaps, a certain fixed principle. He also
spoke slowly and sadly.

" What can be between us. Sister," he said, " except
this mutual Office of Priest and — ? "

— " Penitent ! " she said, mechanically, as he paused.
Then, with a choking voice, and with that helpless sad-
ness in which one might cry out, who was falling, sud-
denly, hopeless, into the soft, drifted snow between the
glaciers, and whose w^ords the cold wind behind was
whirling away, wasted in air, she gasped out : —

" ' Wliat can be betwx'en us ? ' — Oh ! ' — and tears

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dripped faster throu;j;li tlie hush that followed, upon the
floor. Ajijain, the I'riest was moved ; and so that tears
flowed from his vyo^i, also. A moment is a great thiiijr,
when erowdc'd full ; and this lasted a moment. Of her-
self she strun:<jfled forth to firm footin«jj, and said: —

"No! I did not eome here to wrep ; " and, }};atherin<»
strength, went on, keeping her feeling down under her
voice : —

" This Olfiee he between us, then ! It may answer my
purpose."

Now, as she spoke, her voice had all the influence that
the deepest and strongest feeling could give to it, while it
was not so broken as to interrupt her.

" If it be any thing beside confession," he answered,
" is this the place and time ? or, if it be confession, might
you not better seek another priest ? And will you not ? "

" Oh ! no ! If I may speak, then it must be to i/oit f "

He answered, gently and sadly, bracing himself, in his
chair, to listen : —

" I will go through it, if I must ; I do not ask to be
spared my share of pain. I see a life full of it before
me ; a dark ocean and a dark sky meeting : but I know
well, no good can come of this. Why may we not both
be spared?"

— " And yet it is your very part to look on the twitch-
ing of the heart's living fibre ; ay, to hold its walls open,
"while you gaze in between ! I would not give you pain ;
but this is God's opportunity to me, and I have made my
way to this poor little place, feeling as if I were called to
it. Let me hold it with my knees, like a poor penitent
and suppliant, as I am ! Give me my little right ! "

He answered, still more sadly than before, though that
was very sadly : —

TllK TKIIJUNAL Ol' rKNII KNCK.

;;2!)

answer iny

"You sli.'ill liHVc all your ri;^lit, my Sister." Then, as
If tlicro were mon; in the words than In; liad ficlt till lit
had uttered them, or more jiain iu the prospect than in what
was past, he bent his iicjid lower, and ela-p(!d his hands.

"You wotdd not s<'ek to send m(5 to others indis-
criminately, if you knew of the confessional what I have
known, by my own experience," sshe said.

The I'riest started sndileidy, ns if these earnest, bitter
words were burninfi; anxU. lie lifted up his facii (thou;j:h
with th(! eyes I'ast-closed). It w}is paler than ever; his
lips wei'(» |>ale and slightly trembling, and his fondiead
moist. His a;ji:itation was ('xtreme. Again she leaned
her forehejul on her hands upon the table, while he
seemed to jtray inwaidiy. Presently, he had mastered
himself enough to sjx'ak : —

" Oh ! Sister," he said, " will you not go to some other
with your bunhin?" And then, as if meeting an objec-
tion, added — "To no bad j)riest ; go to the bishop, or to
Fatluu* Terence, at Bay-IIarbor."

" Why should I go to them ? I know them not, and
have no business with them. I am willing to confess my
own sin ; but it must be here."

The Priest started, as if recalling himself; his whole
frame heaved, and the momentary ghastliness of his
face was like a phosphorescent light, almost, that flashed
faintly.

'' You spoke of the confess ional," said he ; " it is com-
mon for enemies to charge it."

— " But what I know, alas ! is not a scandal, caught
from others' lips ; it is no horrible suspicion. It is a
frightful fact ! "

Father Ignatius, w^ith a hand upon each knee, sat like
a man balancing himself in a skiff, and intent, as if for

' ... a

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TIIK NKW I'KIEST.

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MjII

life or (Icatli, upon lli<! dan^^Mroiis cddins tlirouj^li whleh
he was wliiiTm^. Shi' went on, after a pausr: —

"1 cjiiik; here, not to speak of that. If never harmed
me. It came not near me. Let me confess my sin.
Once, I consented, — I will not say on what inducement, —
to force a douht into my mind, where there was none,
about u sacred bond between me and atiother. — " (The
Priest lifted up liis eyes to heaven, and moved his lips.)
"Th(!re was no doubt before; there was none since. —
Again I suffered mys<df, — I will not speak of my induce-
ments, — to draw aside into a convent, to weigh and settle
questions, where no ([uestion was, about my Faith, about
my Church, about my liibh?. I went to services ; I kept
the Hours : I read books ! — went to confession. — Oh !
that dreadful time ! My eyes burned : my brain burned :
my heart burned : all seemed drying up within me. It
was a wilderness and a Devil tempting ! — I heard, and
read, and confessed, as one in agony may pour down one
draught after another. — Is there a greater sin ? To take
in doubt, where there is no doubt ? — Of a plain thing ?
To suffer question where there is no question, and where
none ought to be, because the thing is plain as God's
great sun ? — I went no farther ; but I went too far !
— I broke forth into fresh air, and already I had
lost all ! Yes, I have suffered something for my sin ;
— and God has since taken away my beautiful boy !
but I stand strongly now ; I closed his eyes in a sure
faith."

A mighty feeling seemed to occupy Father Ignatius ;
not rending like the earthquake, or sweeping over, like
the hurricane ; but rising, rather, like the strong, black
flood, eddying and whirling and swelling up within.

" The faith of a child came back to my heart," she

THE TUFIUJNAL OF I'KNU'DNCI:.

831

said, " wlicii I was free, once rnoro ; it came back like a
Fprinjij tliMt had been dry.

" Tiicre ! I have yielded so far to tlie customs of this
phiee ; and have hiid down, at the door of tliis church, tiie
sin that was [)ut into my liands at its door; but now I
must break throu^li, cost what it wiU. I iuivc no power
oi' skill to carry out a part, and, in i)retending to confess,
insinuate what I hi.ve to speak. I am a woman, and
must go straight to my object. — It was not to say what
I have said.

"Nor have I any claim to urpje for myself, now that I
have made my way to this place, except to speak. I ask
back nothing that has been taken from me ; I have;
counted it all lost." — (Her voice trembled, as she spoke
that short, sad word ; but in a moment she went on, and
her voice was stead ..) " I am still ready to count it lost;
and ask nothing for it but the leave to plead, — (not for
myself, either, but for another,) — against this church and
prifisthood that have robbed me."

(Poor woman ! is that what she has come for ?)

" It may seem a frenzy that 1 should come here, — a
weak woman, — into the very citadel of this Church, to
speak against it ; and into the confessional, to accuse the
priest. I have come upon a woman's errand ; but with
no bitter words to utter ; no reproaches ; no upbraidings.
My whole purpose is to plead ; and I hjive little time."

(The candles flared ; the clerk breathed hard, in sleep.)

" You are a priest ; but whoever, — man or woman, —
has the truth of God, is so far a minister of God, as to
have right and power with it, in His name."

Her voice had risen, as she spoke, (such was its energy
of conviction and purpose,) above its former level ; the
clerk started, and ere he was awake, said, in the church

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THE NEW PKIEST.

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tone, " Sed lihera nos a — "* Then, having looked about
him, and recovered himself, turned again to his book, and
his low reading, as before. The Priest did not move,
but sat in ])erfect silence, with a face intensely agitated.

Once more, at this interruption, he bowed her head
upon the table, and was still. Again the clerk's reading
ceased ; again the deep breathing of sleep followed, and
again she spoke : —

'' I will not plead your loss of all dear memories of the
first things that we hold sacred : child's prayers ; the
Catechism; Sundt^.y-lessons ; holy books given and treas-
(U'ed ; the awfulness and beauty of God's House and
Service ; the kneeling-place beside Father and Mother ;
Con.^rmation ; Holy Communion ; — 1 do not mean to
appeal to feelings, though 1 am a woman ; — that argu-
menc can be used on either side ; — but I call up that
priesthood th;it you wore, and ask. Do you feel safe, — can
^ ou feel >i).i'c, — giving up such convictions and such obliga-
tions as were upon you, for a religion and a priesthood
that must go over or outside of God's Written Word for
every thing that is their own ? — (Let me speak freely this
once ! I speak weeping.") As she said this, the weep-
ing, for a moment, overcame the speaking. — She struggled
on : — " When there is no Pop<.', no Queen of Heaven, no
Sacrament of Penance, no Purgatory and pardons out
of it, none of the suj)erstition, (let me speak it !) and idol-
atry, and absolute dominion over soul and body, which
this cruel, dreadful priesthood brings with it, like a car
of Juggernaut, no frecpient, dangerous intimacy of men
with wicked women : nor subjection of innocent, trusting
women to false ministeis of God ; — none of this in all the
written Word of God. Church and Gosfrnl come in,
hundreds of tiir.Gs ; and fa'ith, and love, and fellovv-
* " But deliver us from—"

'=)!t<5(.f» V

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THK TRIBUNAL OF PENITENCE.

333

slnp ; a simple, kindly priesthood, and a church which
is the holy jratherinjj of believers !

" Father Ignatius Debree ! — once a priest of the
Church 'in England ! — You have taken to your heart,
and confess with your lips, — (I speak in tears,) — a wor-
ship corrupted, a faith perverted, sacraments chanfred, a
ministry altered in form and spirit! Yes ; whatever au-
thority any one of these has, it cannot turn for witness to
the Bible ! Not one of them is in it ; and the others
are, the Catholic Church, Faith, Friesth.ood, all !

" Can you dare to break down, and tear asunder, and
trample under foot, what is in the Bibl(», and what was
in the hearts and on the lips of Apostles and Martyrs,
(as it is in our poor hearts and on our lips,) for those
uncertain things? — You cannot!

" For a while, when you are with other priests, or very
busy, you may not tremble or falter ; but when you are
alone, or when you are among other people, as you must
be often, the thoughts of what you have abandoned and
what you have chosen, — of what yc have lost, and what
you have gained, will come ; and then the memories of
ciiildhood will stretch out their little hands to you ; the
faces of other forsaken meinoiies will come gently and
mournfully up to you ; you will hear old voices, and see
old scenes. — You cannot help it ! — You have known the
truth, and had it. Your mind will never satisfy itself
with this; your heart can never really sec its love here !
Never ! never ! And when you feel what it must be,
being false! and what you taught, true" —

Again there was a slight noise, as of some one moving,
not far off; but, beside the Pi'iest, only the sleeping clerk
was to be seen. She had been kneeling, and she rose
blowly. There was silence.

■M.

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THE NKW PRIEST.

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" Is it finialied ? " asked the Priest, miister of his voice,
though ghastly pale.

She stood still before him ; and then, with a voice
partly breaking, again said, " Yes ! " Then again she
said, " I have thought and prayed, for years, — and have
spoken ! Thank God for this chance ! Thank you for
hearing ! "

" Are you satisfied, now ? " asked the Priest.

There was no answer, but a convulsion of the woman's
frame as if her heart were breaking before tliis im[)assive
strength of the man. — She rallied herself, as she had
rallied herself before, and answered : —

" No ! no ! but neither am I wearied. When I am
gone, I shall still plead, elsewhere, — for one thing, — for
one thing ! Farewell, Father Ignatius ! Will you say,
' God be with you ? ' "

" Oh ! yes, indeed ! God be with you, forever ! "

Suddenly she passed out ; — disturbing, as she went, a
woman who seemed sleeping by the doorway.

Father Ignatius fell down heavily, on his knees, before
the table.

A ill

lis voice,

FATHER DKBIiEE AT BAY-IIARBOR AGAIN. 335

CHAPTER XXX VIL

woman s

FATIIKR DEBliEE AT BAY-HARBOR AGAIN.

E must go to other of the characters of our
story.

Some (lays after having mentioned to the
priests at Bay-IIarbor the suspicions entertained among
the people of his neighborhood, Father Debree again
sought the Mission-premises, and Father Terence.

The substantial dignitary, before sitting down, said : —

" Will ye oblige me by giving that door a small swing
into th' other room ? " and waited, upon his feet, until the
door had been opened, and the adjoining room shown to
have no person in it.

" What's betwixt you and him, then ? " he asked, when
all was quiet again. " It's not good having trouble ; — and
with one like him. You're the younger priest, and it's
good to bear the yoke — portare jugum, — (I told ye that
before,) and ye'll, maybe, be high enough, by-and-by.
Take a bit of advice off me, and don't mind um."

" I shall take it, pleasantly, I hope, and do my duty by
him, too ; Tve come about important business, Father
Terence, concerning the Church."

Father Terence's countenance prepared to rise at this
reference to himself (as was proper) of important church-
business ; but in the end, it fell.

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336

THE NKW PRIKST.

"And (lid yo tell him, yet?" said the difinitary. iook-
ing a little annoyed at the prospect of this important
business, or at the idea of its being of such a cliaracter as
to have already s(!t his two juniors jit variance.

"Oh no!" said Father Debrce, " what I have to say
could not be saiti, projx^rly, to ;uiy but yourself."

Reassured by (his information, the worthy old Pri(*st
began gradually to take on his importance, and awaited
the opening of the business eomi)lacently.

" It concerns the yoinig girl nii.-sing from P<^terport.
It is gen(>rally believed that she has been carried off,"
said Father Debree, by way of stating the case.

The ex[)ression in the senior's face changed, as the hue
in the evening cloud changes ; hi " look of dignity was
passing into oni; of moderate indignation. The change
seemed to puzzle his companion. " You know about her,
I believe?" he asked.

" Indeed I do, then," answered Father Terence, with
much dignity and some asperity. The other continued,
with a doubtful look, but with the respectful manner he
had used frc^m the first : " Perhaps you're aw{*.re, already,
of what I was going to say ?"

" Indeed, and it's likely I may," said the dignitary. "An*
could not yerself leave it, without coming to stand up
against your superiors in the Church? I think some-
thing must have come over ye." With these words, the
superior drew himself up in his chair.

" But, Father Terence, if there was -^^rong presumptive
evidence, I think you'd be one of (he last men to discredit
it, without sifting," said the other.

" Sure, I don't know who would know better than me-
self that it's all lies."

" But, surely, in an affair of such consequence, you

I i '«..>,. If

FATHER DEBREK AT BAY-IIARBOR AGAIN. 337

wouldn't take it for grantiul ?" urged Father De-

bree.

" Would I take it for granted I hadn't swallowed me-
pelf?' asked the elder, xcry decidedly.

" But this is fjcar('(>ly a parallel case," said the other,
with polite per.severanee.

" Isn't it, then ? Sure, I think I needn't examine to
show meself that I hadn't stolen a girl in Peterport!"

" Ah ! but you couldn't say, confid<,'ntly, that another
had not."

" But I don't speak of others ; it's meself I speak of."

" But why shouldn't we speak of others, when others
are concerned ? "

"Then ye were not aware," said Father Terence, — this
turn of the conversation making him throw aside — as he
was always very glad to do — his annoyance and dignified
reserve, and resuming his hearty kindliness, when he
thought he saw through the case, and that the younger
priest was imperfectly informed, " it's meself that they're
after accusing."

" I never heard that," answered the younger.

" Indeed, it's easy seeing ye didn't," said Father Ter-
ence again.

" I think that must be a mistake," said the younger
priest.

" Indeed, I think so meself; and I'm middling sure of
it," said the senior, a smile venturing again into his
lliee.

" I mean, I think it must be a mistake that you were
i^uspected. Of course, no one who knew you could doubt,
for a moment, whether you were innocent."

" It was Father Nicholas told me, then ; and there's
not manny a one hears more than him. It's only a few

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3.38

THE NEW TKIEST.

days ago lie said, the people — that's the Protestants — were
saying all sorts of things, and suspecting the Catholic
priests, and, as he said, meself 's at the head of them,
' and ye might as well suspect his Holiness himself,' said
he."

" I've come from the midst of it, and I heard nothing
of you ; but 1 know that he is suspected ; and there are
strange circumstances, such as, for his own sake, he ought
to explain."

The dignitary's countenance lighted up, decidedly, as
he answered : —

" Indeed, that's another horse of the one color, as they
say. So they've left meself off, and taken on suspecting
him! But, then," he continued, "I'm fearful it's jusL his
being my own coadjutor that's made them do it;" and a
generous feeling of not allowing another to suffer for him,
exhibited itself in his face. " They think he's younger,
and not so conspikyis, and easier handled."

" No," answered the other ; " I think you were always
above suspicion ; but they have always, I'm told, sus-
pected him, and the impression, that he is involved in it
as principal, has been growing from the first."

" And how would he tell meself, then, it was me they
were at?" asked the elder, not quite seeing his way out
of the enigma. Leaving the answer to this question to
turn up by-and-by, he hurried on upon the new path that
presented itself to him. " What's this they say about um,
then ? Do they say he's stolen her ? And how would he
get her?"

To this crowd of questions, Mr. Debree answered col-
lectively.

" She disapj)eared in the night or morning, and is
known to have been at or near the house that he visited

FATHKrw DKP.RKK AT RAY-Tl ATIBOR AGAIN. 3oU

VK. n ^

tlmt ni^^lit wllli two iniiis ; and one more {"cniali! cani(5
back in Ins punt, from that lious(?, than went to it."

" lint, — don't ye: see ? — ho wouiihi't ho carryin;^ icniales
about at ni«!;lit in a punt."

'• llo took two Si>ti;rs up with him, you know, Falhcr
Terence."

A recollection of the propos(Ml plan of Fath(!r Nicho-
las's chantid)le excnirsion of that night, probably came up
to the elder i)riest at this suggestion.

" But he would never have carried off a Protestant
girl. What would he do the like of that for ? Sure a
man can't carry oiF all that's Protestants."

Mr. Debree repeated the tenor of the conversation be-
tween himself and Father Nicholas.

" But he wouldn't be doing the like without asking me-
self for leave or license. And where do they think has
he sent her, when he got her ? "

" They say, Pm told, that she's with the Sisters, here,
in the Mission premises ; but what authority they have
for saying so, I don't know."

" Ah ! thin, it's little Pve troubled that place since they
were in it. Only once I was in it, at his asking. But,
sure, would he bring her here without ever so much as
saying ' with yer leave,' or ' by yer leave ! ' It's not
likely he would, and me at the head o' the District."

The venerable head of the dignitary swung silently
and solemnly, twice, from side to side, as he resolved this
question in the negative.

" I don't know what they go upon for that ; but I think
the other circumstances deserve to be examined."

The senior looked perplexed again, and, reverting to
his own experience of his " coadjutor," said, —

" But how '11 we find out, if he won't tell us ?"

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310

HE NEW PRIEST.

I ;'■

" The law won't wait tor him to tell."

" But, sure, ye'rc not for taking the law of a priest !
and him yer superior, too ? "

" Of course, not I ; but suppose the friends bring the
law down here! Wouldn't it be well, by a timely atten-
tion, to remove the occasion of suspicion "i "

" But I'm satisfied we'll never get it out of him, at all."

" Can't you do this, Father Terence ; can't you find out
whether she is hero, «jr has been here ? "

Faihcr Terence looked very reluctant to enter upon
any such work as was projjosed.

" Ii's not that easy done," he said. " I have no knowl-
edge of the place, at ail, more than Solomon's temple."

" It isn't for me to suggest, Father Terence ; but it's
not a very large place, and if the Sisters were exam-
ined "

"It's ei.-sy just stepping over yerself, then, and we'll
know in a jiffy. I'll give ye a bit of note to introduce
ye," said Father Terence, having devised a simple and
ready way of satisfying Mr. Debree, and, very likely,
everybody else.

"' But, Father Terence, though I feel sincerely for the
father, and though it's natural, from the position I hold at
Peterport, for me to wish the thing cleared up, and proper
for me to mention it to you^ it would not be my part, in
any way, to set myself about investigating in your premi-
ses. It seems to me that you are the proper person."

Father Terence was no coward, but he seemed very
loth to undertake this business. Lighting his pipe, which
he hjid not yet lighted, and suffering the smc^3 to float
about his head, like clouds about the nionntain's crest, he
summoned a council in the midst o.C it, as Pope makes
Homer say, that —

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FATHER DEBREE AT BAY-HARBOR AGAIN. Oil

"Jove convened a senate of the skies,
Where high Olympus' cloudy tops arise."

From this deliberation, after a time, he proclaimed —

'" I've found, mostly, it's best not inquii-ing into things."

" But when things will be inquired into by the law, if
we do nothing about them ; and the consequences, to our-
selves and the Church, may be very serious ; is it not
worth our while to anticipate that investigation and its
consequences ? "

" What would hinder yourself speaking to him ? "
asked Father Terence, personifying, in the masculine
gender, the object of the inquiry. The other priest took
it simply, as it was said, and answered : —

" I cannot as properly do it, being, as I am, his junior ;
but I'm not at all afraid to have him know what I have
said, if you should think fit to enter upon the subject, and
will say it all in his presence, if called upon to do it."

" Ay, then, we'll see about it," concluded the dignitary,
and finishing his pipe, shook from it the white ashes, re-
filled it, but then, instead of rekindling it, laid it aside,
and asking —

" Did ye hear the pig out, beyond in the garden ? "
started forth as if upon some errand about the live-stock
of the Mission, requesting Father Debree to amuse him-
self for a while alone.

The door had scarcely closed upon him, than it opened
again to let him in.

"I beg pardon," said he, lieartily, "I'm forgetting to
offer ye any thing ; " and taking a black quart bottle from
under a table near the wall, and ilnding, somewhere, a
tumbler that had lost a piece of itself, he proposed to
exercise the hospitality of the time and country, in his
own kindly way. Clearly, no drinker, our good father !

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342

THE NEW TRIEST.

" Here's some su/^ar tliat T keep convenient," said he,
drawing forward, with his stout hand, a paper with yield-
ing contents. " Ah ! no, then, it's this must be it," he
continued, substituting one of tlie same blue color, but
not, like the first, redolent of tobacco.

He had just produced a teacup without handle, which
he called the mate of the tumbler.

" Our furniture 's not quite equal to the King's or the
Pope's,' he said, by way of apology, " but I've store of
glasses in the house."

Father Debree declined, with many thanks, the hearty
hospitality offered, and was, at length, again lefl alone,
with an apology.

FATHER O'TOOLE'S ASSISTANT.

343

CHAPTER XXX vm.

FATHER o'tOOLE's ASSISTANT.

ATHER O'TOOLE, on leaving the other priest,
went out at the outer door of the house, and —
no pig appearing, in tlie course of his circuit of
the narrow grounds of the Mission, — visited his geese
and ducks, and lieard a chorus of contented grunts from
the dwellers in the stye. At length, turning away with
decision, he again entered the house.

With a good, solid, steady step he mounted up the
stairs, shut a door or so, and then, knocking one loud and
several lesser knocks (which expressed resolution, — quali-
fied, — ) quoted, aloud, one line of a hymn : —

" ' C celeste pulset ostium.' " *

From within the door at which he stood, came forth —

" ' Vitale toUat praemium : ' t

Please come in. Reverend Father."

And Father O'Toole entered.

The room was much more substantial-looking and
elegant than the rest of the house in which it was. The
woodwork, generally, was painted of a dark color ; that
of the chimney was black and varnished. Well propor-
tioned book shelves of black, varnished wood, and well
filled with handsome books, covered a portion of the wall ;

• Let him knock at heaven's door,
t And take life forevernun-e.

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the wall-papor wa.^ slato-colorod, with hhick hoivh'r. A
ahit('-('()lor('(l (h'()j)-('iirtain \\u\\<^ partly down hclbro the
window. Not every thiii'^ in I Ik; room was elegant
or eostly ; hnt some things wen; rich, and all were
tasteful.

The table at whicdi the oeenpant of the room sat, had
a cover of blaek broadcloth, with a narrow (mI;^,. of
velvet of the same eolor ; a pricdieu* stwul at a little dis-
tance behind it, a^rainst a folding-screen adorned with
boldly-marked crayon drawings of sill<'gori<! subjects. The
pricdieu, itself, was decorated with black silk velvet turned
up with silk. Upon the top, and Hanked on each side
by a wax candle, was a crucifix about three feet high,
supcu'bly W! ought in ivory. A painful representation of
Our Lord's agony on the cross, like what may be seen in
German churches, hung opposite the window.

A perfect match tor the surroundings was the man sit
ting at the table, with his ivory tl-atures and black, glossy
hair and dress ; — for there sat Father Nicholas as we
before described him, resting his feet, in black velvet
slippers, on a hassock of the same material beneath the
table. There was now hanijino; on his bosom, by a black
bead-chain from his neck, a miniature of a fair, saintly
female, with hands clasped and eyes looking upward.

He arose, with much dignity atid humility, at once, as
the other entered, laying down a book opcm, on the back
of which, in very distinct letters, was the name : " Exercit.
Spirit. S. Ignatii."

" I am very proud to see you in my room. Reverend
Father," said he ; " will you be so kind as to occupy this
chair, an easier one than mine, and more appropriate to
years and honors ? "

He wheeled out, accordingly, a comfortable arm-chair

* Prav'^r-doHik.

V^ K

FATIIKK U'TUOLK'S ASSISTANT.

31.1

of stufTcd inoi'occo, into wliicli the sciudi', with a some-
wliat awkward, Itiit siiicrrc and sctlid conrtcsv, siilVcrcd
liimsL'ir to descend gradually, and thru (a little .suddenly,)
drop.

"Always well <Miga;;ed. Ah ! what a happy thing to
liave that leisure from great and <'onstaut eares that will
permit of holy studies. Jt was mine, onec. 'Twas my
own, once. IJut th(jre's many's the candle is put under
a bush(d without our meaning it. IJefore I found my
})la('e I thought often of making a hit of a bhi/e in the
world, some way ; hut now all that is metamorpliosed en-
tirely. 'Introduction!' ah! what's this, then? Oh!
Saint Francis de Sales. French, I suppose. Oh ! to bo
sure. ' Chapitre XI ; ' — chaj)t(jr Eh'venth. That's i)hiia
enough. ' Of the exercise of* — sometliing or other, 'and
examen of the consci(mce.' It woul(hi't he so hard after
all; but considcu'ing it isn't every body that learns French,
it would have been small blame to the holy man if he
had written in plain English that every one understands,
or in Latin itself."

" You wished to see me on business, I believe, Father
Terence," said Father Nicholas very engagingly, laying
his watch carefully down upon the table. " I liope you
won't be afraid of interrui)ting me, for I'm quite at your
service."

Somewhere in this calm courtesy, or in the action that
accompanied the words, there must have been something
peremptory or in some way embarrassing, for the digni-
tary's good-natured face and eyes testified to such a feel-
ing.

" Indeed a good deal of business we have together," he
answered, for the time, not being prepared, perhaps, to
answer more definitely on the sudden.

340

THE NEW PRIEST.

Il iffi

Si M.

" Our Sisters are inclined to complain that they never
have the benefit of a visit from the head of the mission,"
said Father Nicholas again, smiling. " Will you allow
me to pray for them, while it's on my mind, that you'll
honor them and favor thera in that way before long ?
Excuse me for taking the conversation away. I listen."

If he listened, he listened to small purpose. The dig-
nitary sat uneasily ; prepared to speak by clearing his
throat, and looking to either side. In doing this, if he
did not prepare himself tor proceeding to business, he, at
ler-i^t, secured a subject for a passing diversion of the
conversation.

Taking up something from the floor, under the table,
which proved to be a glove, he laid it upon a book, ob-

servmg,-

" Y'have a small hand of yer own, if ye can put that
on it."

Father Nicholas's hands were quite small and graceful,
as one might sec who looked at them ; but this glove was
smaller and more slender still, apparently. It looked like
one in frequent use. Such as it was, it seemed strange
in that place, and the occupant of the room seemed to feel
awkwardly at the first sight. Leaving it, however, to he
where it was, he spoke very freely of it.

" No," said he, " that's not mine. It's a lady's, appar-
ently ; and, probably, belongs to one of the Sisters. How
it came there, I can't say ; but things often come and go
between them and me. This might come in a parcel."

The elder priest looked grave. He might not have
thought of there being any other proprietor of this ar-
ticle of apparel than the occupant of the room until he
was told it ; but having heard what he had heard, he
seemed to have mastered his difficulty of speal^ing, and

■■h1Wf^#:

to feel
[•, to lie

FATHER OTOOLE'S ASSISTANT.

347

tlie occasion brought liim, most unexpectedly, to the very
subject on \Yhich he and Father Debree had been talking.

" It's my opinion," he said, " it's better not having too
much to do with women, if they're nuns, itself. The old
rules for priests are the good rules. I'm thinking. Your-
self's perfectly innocent, certainly ; — it's not that I'm
speaking of ; — but bad tilings happen sometimes ; and it's
good for the like of us to be a long way from evil tongues.
They're saying now, ye've got that young Protestant girl
from Peterport."

The good-natured Father Terence had uttered his first
two sentences with the confidence of a man speaking
truths of general acceptation. At that point where it
may have occurred to him that he was making a per-
sonal application of general principles, and assuming a
superiority which he was always dlfiident about asserting,
his usual kindness of feeling came over him, and he
went precipitately over the next sentence, and by the
time he came to the last very important one, which con-
tained the gist of his whole business, it might have ap-
peared to be only a side observation to withdraw attention
from the former.

Father Nicholas had been sitting with steady eyes fixed
upon the speaker, and the most easy, well-bred (or elegant)
air of listening ; his ivory face being at all times a secure
screen for any thing that was passing behind it, unless to
a very keen sight, and only his eyes showing a little more
fire than usual.

The elder having ceased to speak, he made answer.

" Scarcely a Pi'otestant, Father Terence ; she is bap-
tized a Catholic '''

" I never hard that," said the elder. " She didn't get
baptized to my own knowing."

■ h

81«

THE Ni:W PRIEST.

I:' !'ni

■ 1 1 .■ ■

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Imki

" No, but she was baptl/i'd sixteen years ago, as your
book shows."

" That's before I was in it."

'•Yes, it was in Father Dale's time, and, if you'll bo
kind enoiij:!jh to look, you'll see it."

AVhile the worthy old priest was arr;in;:;ing his thoughts
upon this subjeet, and very likely preparing to express
an opinion upon the extent of thai authority whieh the
Chureh had aequired by the secret administration of that
sacrament, his informant was waiting to allow the infor-
mation to take possession. When Father Terence began
to speak, and had got so far as to say, —

" But first in the Fnglish Church, and brought up,
and i 5 " , then he was gently interrupted, —

" If you please, Heverend Father, 1 have only told
lialf my story yet. Will you allow me to tell the rest?
You know it as well as I, or belter, but when it's all put
together, it may make a difl'enMit impression from any
that you have had. AVe all know her mother for an
apostate ; to save her child would be a triumph "

" There's many's the one's the same way, then," inter-
rupted the (^Ider in his turn.

" ITa])pily, as 1 have good reason to know, she very
recently put herself, of her own accord, in the way to be
reconciknl. If she had drawn back afterward, in fever or
in fear of the step that she was taking, it would have been
mercy not to let her be lost, through any such weakness.
If we had tjiken aitt/ means to secure her, it would have
been simply duty ; but as the girl is missing, we need not
speculate upon Avhat might have been. Let it be a con-
solation to you, Father Terence, and to any Catholic that
is interested in one so related to the Church, that she was
baptized in infancy, and had made an effort to be recon-

FATHER O'TOOLKS ASSISTANT.

319

ciled. That suspicion sliould have turiunl from you to
me, does not surpris*; mo,. They will suspect, and, find-
ing it impossible long to suspect you, they put one less
known, and less generally esteemed, in your stead."

He did not stop at this point; but hastened to touch a
subject of inij^ortance vvliich had, perhaps, sh])ped from
Fatlier TeivMice's mind.

"You speak ti-uly of tlie caution and distance to be ob-
served, as regards persons of tlie oilier sex. My dear
Father Terence, if there were any thing dangerous or
improper in a priest exercising his s.acred function singly,
(and I grant the propriety of always being associated
with another pri<;st in the work, ac(;ording to th(! rule and
practice of tlie Society,) yet how is it that so much care
and labor and responsibility, in regard to these Sisters, has
been throv;n upon me against my wish? I do not com-
plain ; I might not have mentioned it now, except for
what has been said; but I am sure that not only ir
would have been the greatest pleasure to me, as well as
privilege to them, but, also, I have re[)eatedly begged, in
person, the favor of Father O'Toole's joint and sup(;rior
supervision. I should be very glad to hope that hereafter
it might be secured."

The assault was fairly turned upon the dignitary,
whether by accident of war or by Father Nicholas's skill;
and the good-natured man began to defend himself.

"It's true I did not do much in that way this while
hack. The truth is, I don't fancy that sort of work, when
it doesn't come pat in my way. In parish-duty it's my
desire to be diligent ; but I'm not accustomed to females,
and I'm not for having charge of a House o' them."

" Pray forgive me," said the other priest, " it isn't for
me to call you to account, or to complain. — Is our Peter-

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350

THE NEW PRIEST.

port inan happy in his place? I can't find out any thing,
pleav'iantly, from liim."

" Faith, then, I'd forgotten him ; he'll take care of him-
self, a bit ; but I mustn't leave him too long, this way.**

" Doii't allow me to detain you," said Father Nicholas ;
" but vou had some business with me, I think. I fear I've
interrupted it."

The elder priest looked disconcerted.

" Will ye see hira yourself, then ? " he asked, gathering
himself out of his seat, and preparing to go. Father
Nicholas rose politely ; but with a changed expression.

" I thought there had been some modest and charitable
suggestion of Debree's," said he ; " he's a young gentle-
man that will need to be taught his place. If you'll aUow
me, I'll come down. I'll follow you directly, Father
Terence."

And Father Terence took his leave.

THE THREE PRIESTS TOGETHER.

351

hii

CHArXER XXXIX.

THE THREE PRIESTS TOGETHER.

pBfOlIEi good-natured Fatlur Terence came hastily
■^ back from his visit up stairs to Father Nicholas,
and prepared his guest for what he himself
Feemed to consider a formidable interview, by announ-
cing, in a rather flurried way, —

" Himself 's coming, but don't heed him."
Whoever has waited for an encounter, of the sort that
WLo now approaching, has felt the nervous excitement to
which Father Debree's face, slightly flushed as it was,
and his kindling eye, gave witness in him. The elder
priest seemed to feel like one who had innocently opened
a flood-gate, or set some formidable machinery in motion
which he knew not how to stop, and could only stand and
look upon, as it rushed on.

" I'm not concerned about meeting him," said the
younger ; and, as he spoke. Father Nicholas came in.

The contrast in personal appearance between the two
men who were about to meet, was very noticeable. Fa-
tlier Debree looked as if his soul were woven into the
whole substance of his body. There was a nobleness of
air and manner about him that at once engaged one's confi-
dence ; and his face, full of earnestness, and his clear eye,
had yet a gentleness that showed a living sympathy which
is very winning to love. Father Nicholas was handsome

r '!!

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■ ■■

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III

352

THE NEW PRIEST.

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beyond the common range, intelligent and thoughtful-
looking, — giving one, indeed, the impression that there
was might in hi:n ; and yet there was a fe<'ling, also, that
within him were unseen, douhtful depths, sueh as some
j)e()ple trust them to and others shrink from, by simple
intuition.

So much was on the outside of the two men ; and at
the moment, while Father Debree had a slight flush upon
his cheek, and in his eye a tire, as we have said. Father
Nicholas came into the room and saluted him, (after bow-
ing to the elder priest,) with his usual look of self-posses-
sion and his usual paleness ; though perhaps his eye
flashed and his mouth wfis a little compressed.

" I may come to my business without preface, I sup-
pose," said the latter. " I believe you have taken upon
yourself to speak to Father O'Toole of suspicions enter-
tained of me in Peterport. I am not much concerned
about the public opinion of that intelligent town ; but I
think I have a right to ask on what ground you hav; be-
come their representative and spokesman."

" Ay, and don't be warm. Father Nicholas, either ;
sure it's asy speaking of things in a quiet way," said Fa-
ther O'Toole.

" I have mentioned the reports current," said Father
Debree, " as deserving, in my opinion, to be counted of
importance to the Church, and of still greater importance
to right and justice."

" Allow me to inquire how."

" To the Church, because its ministers are implicated,
by general suspicion, in a cruel outrage ; and to right and
justice, because, whether there is any ground for the sus-
picion or not, full investigation ought to be demanded, and
every assistance given to an investigation."

'tW;#'

THE THREE PRIESTS TOGETHER.

3r)3

" Let us take things quietly, as the Very Reverend
Father O'Toole recommends. Suppose the Church's
ministers are implicated, (we went over much the same
ground the other day,) is that any thing new, or strange,
or bad, in itself? Vce vobis cum benedixerint, — beati cum
maledixerint* As to right and justice, in case we had
this girl, or had control over her, I suppose we might
fairly claim to know something of them, and to care
something for them. I suppose, too, that the ' ministers
of the Church ' (as you say) have some rights which are
of value, as well as others. I suppose their freedom and
independence to be of some consequence to themselves
and the Church, and, in my own person, would not yield
an inch, or a hair's breadth, the rights of my order. If
one of us foolishly put himself into tlKiir hands, on their
demand, others will be at their mercy, forever after.
For the Church — I think she is strong enough to stand,
for some years yet, all the blasting of men's breath ; and
that she would be no gainer if her priests were at the
beck of the multitude of her enemies."

Father Debree answered : —

'' I cannot see how innocent men can have any other
feeling than a desire for a thorough searching where they
have been unjustly suspected, and where, in them, a
sacred cause suffers suspicion ; and I cannot see how
private right has any thing to fear in such a case ; — and
where a quiet and kind-hearted people are touched and
hurt in their best feelings ; and more, where a family is
suffering the greatest sorrow that can af!lict human hearts,
— the loss, by some uncertain fate, of its very fairest and
dearest, its joy and its crown, — it does not seem to me too
much to expect of any who have it in their power to

* Woe to you when thoy shall have blessed you! happy shall ye
be when they shall have cursed you!

1 fi:

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354

THK NEW rUIKST.

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tlirow light into tlie unrortain liorror tluit surrounds tlioso
innocent mourncrf, that they will not rest until they
have (lone what in them lies to cloar it uj)."

"That's well said," exclaimed Father Teicnce, who
was leaninj:^ forward on the arms of his chair, while the
others stood facin,<^ ''ach other — "and the right feelinn:,
too!"

lather Nicholn" listened devoutly to the old Priest's
words, aiid ilj:!s iuid, with a bend of the body, —

" With your leave, i^ather Terence ! As to guilt or
innocence, I have no thought of pleading here ; but of
my fit course of action, under the suspicions held of me,
I shall crave leave to judge. I am by no means pre-
pared to say that I should consider any human affections
in comparison with the saving of a soul, if I were called
to determine between the two. In this case, however, as
it happens, I have not been gloating over the sorrows of
parents whom I liad plunged in mourning, but have done
what was n<'cessan' to relieve them from uncertainty, as
far as respects myself. — What do you think of that, sir ?"
he concluded, putting a paper into Father Debree's hand.
It was a copy of a Conception-Bay weekly newspaper,
published the day before ; and it was folded so as to ex-
pose a })articular portion, to which, also, he pointed with
his finger. The other read the paper attentively and
carefully, having first glanced from the top to the bottom,
as to a signature. He then returufid it, with a bow, with-
out comment.

" I beg pardon, Father Terence, for using this paper
before making you acquainted with its contents, if you'll
allow me, I will read it."

" Ah ! then, it's bad enough having words, let alone

writmg.

" Perhaps, if you'll be kind enough to hear this read,

THE TIlliKK I'KUCSTS TOGETUEK.

355

you may not think ill of it, Father Terence " — and look-
ing up 'it the el;ler priest, und taking liis assent for granted,
FatlKT Nicholas read as follows : —

" IJay-IIiirbor, ss. Northern District of NcwToundhiiid,
— Day of Auf^ust, in the Year of our Lord, .

" Tiie" personally ajjprarcd before me, Petcu' McMan-
nikin, Justice of the I'eace, dice. 6ci\ Nicholas Crampton,
a priest of the Catholic Church, rcsiiliiig in the JMission-
Premises, in said liay-IIarbor, and being duly sworn,
doth, upon his oath, depose and say that he, the r id de-
ponent, has understood and believes that a youn;> fe; do
has lately disappeared, and is now missing fror . ^hn , ..r-
bor of Peterport, in Concv;ption-Bay, and ti.;^. L , the
Niid deponent, has been, or is suspected by m-„iiy ^)er>',on9
in said P'jterport and elsewhere, of huviiig b • r, being
concerned, witli others, in the keeping of said young per-
son from her friends ; and that he, the said de[)onent, does
not know, and has no means of knowing, where the said
young person is, nor whether she is living or dead ; nor
does he know any persons or person who can give such
information ; and that he is thoroughly acquainted with
every part of the Mission-Premises in Bay-llarbor, and
with the building occupied by certain nuns, upon those
premises ; and is fully convinced that she is not in or
upon such premises, in any way ; and said deponent fur-
ther, upon oath, doth declare and say, that if lie, the said
deponent, knew where the said young person was, or what
had bf'^ome of her, or who could give information about
her, he would declare it.

Given under, &c. Peter McMannikin."
" I, Nicholas Crampton, the denonent aforesaid, having
read the above, do sign it, in token that it is a true copy
of the deposition by me made.

August — , A. D. . Nicholas Crampton."

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356

THE NEW PRIEST.

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" I'm glad to liear ye say that much, anny way," said
Father Terence.

" Is the Reverend Mr. Debrec satisfied ? " asked the
reader.

" I can't see that it denies her having been upon these
premises," said the person appealed to.

" You've a sharp eye for flaws, and are not disposed to
release a brother priest from suspicion, too easily," said
Father Nicholas, sneering.

" Ah ! then," said the kindly Father Terence, " ye
shouldn't doubt his meaning."

" I should be glad to know," said Father Nicholas, " if
I am to be badgered in this way by a priest not only
younger than myself, but one whose recent admission and
inexperience in the Church might be expected to teach
him modesty, or, at least, reserve, in the expression of his
opinions, and giving of his advice to those who are both
his elders, and his superiors in the sacred office."

" Indeed that wouldn't be good of anny one," said
Father Terence ; " but sure I never saw it on him."

Father Nicholas continued : " There may be license in
the Anglican sect, which does not exist in the Catholic
Church. It must be remembered, always, that here there
is subordination. Whether your way is likely to advance
you in the Church, you must judg'^ •; but as far as regards
myself, I am not disposed to allow a censorship of my ac-
tions, which, if intended, and persisted in, would seem to
be nothing but deliberate impertinence."

" Stay, brother," said Father Terence ; " I never knew
a man the better, yet, of having hard words thrown at
him ; and ye'll do well to mind that there's older, again,
than yourself in it ; and Father Debree is a guest of my
own the same time."

■r: . ':

THi: THREE PRIESTS TOGETHER.

Si)7

'*Tluink you, Father Terence," said the Peterport
chM-gymun ; " I'm sure that any manly truth and honesty
will find enoouragenicnt from you, I cannot say what in-
fluence my liavin;;^ a conscirnce, and usirif? my tongue,
may liave upon my prospects in the Church ; hut if, to
advance in it, I must hartcr away my English love of
honesty and plain s[)e!iking, I will never purchase suc-
cess at su(!h a \n''uie. There is not the man living, so far
as I know, to wiiom, if I felt it my duty to tell him that he
had done v rong, I should hesitate to say it ; while I will
never, knowingly, fail of the respect and duty which be-
long to those who are above me."

Father Nicholas kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker,
in a steady gaze, while a smile of sarcasm came slowly
about his mouth. Father Debree colored more deeply.

" Since a sort of fraternal inquisition seems to be in
vogue with us, allow me to take my turn for a moment.
Does my strictly-conscientious reverend brother happen
to know where one Helen Mary, (or whatever she was
called,) not long since a postulant in the Presentation
Convent at Lisbon, and who ran away from it, is, at this
present moment ? "

The person addressed started at the mention of the
name, and became instantly pale ; such an eflfect had it
upon him, that his frame seemed coming together.

" It may be necessary to remind you. Father Terence,"
said Father Nicholas, " that this lady is the Mrs. Barre
whom you have heard of. I believe my reverend brother's
susceptible conscience has been so occupied in imputing
fault to his neighbor, as to have forgotten the danger of
scandal to the church from a much nearer quarter."

" Ah ! what's this, then ? " asked Father Terence, turn-
ing a pained and alarmed look upon the priest from Pe*

n:)8

1 1 IK Ni:\v ruiKsr

I, i

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torpoii ; " I don'l Know wiml yy inran, at nil, Futlirr
Nii'lioliis ; I'm sure llirrc's no liann in liim."

" I''ar lit' il iViim me lo say llial (Ihit'h any liann in
liini ; lull, |)ri'lia|H, wlxn yon lirar inoir, yon may in«'lin(>
to |]iinl< thai llio circntnstanciv-^ arc siicli ax to make it
inipoilani, a>^ lie hmvs. lo llio Clnncli, an<l to \'\\i}\\ ami jns-
tico. thai an cxplanalion shonid Im> ma<l<> (»t' thnn. I
«ionht Avlu'lln'i' ln» has ihoniihl ol" mentioning: tin' rircnm-
stancr to yon, hnt I liavr reason to know that this lady i^4
coml'orlahly scIINmI within his limits, and within a very
nhorl distance «>t' him."

" 'Phis is a stranp' story !" said l*'ather O'Tooh', sitting
uni>asily.

*' 1 also know that she is livinj; in IN'tcrpoi'l," anHWcrod
tlie priest iVoni that place, '* and I •"

" Hnt how is this ? Snie, ye wonldn'l l»(^ hrin/^inj^ her
thero to he a snaro to yerseil', aiul a scandal to tiic
Chnrch ! "

"Tso; that is jnst what I have not (him;; and what

you, FatluM' Terence, at least, would not suspect nu; of.

It is by no action or wish of mine that she is IIum'o ; and

it was lo my entire astonishment that I lirst leanuul the

act.

" You sciMu to hav<^ snlfcred it to pjrow info a mon;
than nin(*-days* wonder," said Father Nicholas. "Of
course, 1 do not say that lh«>re's any harm in it ; hnt it is
well known in ihal inleliiii'ent communilv, which, as lu;
says, has devot«>d so nmcii of ils allenlion to my huinhle-
ncss, that vscveral meiMinsxs and conversations, of various
character, have had place helween this lady and the
Reverend FatluM* Dehree. I, of course, know nolhin<; of
their natun^, whether in the Confessional or in private
houL^es, or elsewhere."

^.^

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TIIIC TIIUKK I'UIKSTS T(HiK;niKU.

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Fiillwr ( J'Tocdr, very rrjuly to Hiiltsitlr out of his nliirrri
iiixl iiiinisiiii'SM. " Sure I tliiiik yc'vr irot, in u iimiiiicr,
tin* l»il hrlwcni lirrl'i'lli lo use u limine ol'M|»rr<r|i — and
yi' mil Iniii^ nil ri^lil. '

''It wouldn't ]ip|M','i ' tiiut slin JiMM niiy (lis|ioMition lo
coiiK' liiirk into the liosoin of the ('liiircli/' Mni<l K)itli<;r
Nii'lioljis ; " mIh' .S777//.S", in(l"<'(|, to linvi; Mlir l»it l)('tw<M'fi
her tnlli.' "

" All ! tlini, if'H 11 hiicl tliin;^ luivin;^ any tliiri;; to do

til I

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iind I vvoikIci', indrcd, yon cIkIii I. nifiilion it to

lidi

inyscir," sjiid tin- old priest, addrrssiii'^ r'nllirr Dcliret)
f^r.Mvrly, iiiid Ivviiliii;^ liis llinnilis over cmcIi oIIht.
'J'Ih^ younger iniiii was iiiucli }i;^it{il('d.
" I liJivni't (lone tliiit, I (loiifcss," said Ik; ; " \ trir-d to
Hpciik of it tin' oIImt diiy. I linvc. nj'vcr iiH't with \ut
r my

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Ml' my

conscii'iicc is <dr!ir, liclbn; (iod, that, I have s|)ok('ii as h(!-
caiiHi H Christian prirst."

" I hcli<!V(', ye, man ; ami is this it, then, ye, word
wishin;^ to 8f)(!ak ahont that tiiru! ? hut coiildn't ye, writo
WW, tlui way I could (^iv*', y(i a hit of advi(',(! ? It's not fit

to <ro on, tho way it is, in

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led

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As I^'athcr Tcrciu-f! added this, h<; ijlancfMl from

one of \hv. yonn^^'r pri(sts to the otlu^r. Father Delireo
stood silent. l^'alher Nicholas answered, in a suhdiu-d

tone,

" I fear llie jrossip or the scandal of the; [dace mi^lit
assign motiv«'>, the l(»ast hai'rnfiil of wdTudi would h(! a
wish to assail the /ruVA of the fathc^r confessor; a moro
directly [)ersonal and more material motive miyht be in-
sinuated."

i. IT •n ■

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3 GO

THE NEW PRIEST.

'1 i

1 1 : ■■

i ri

" T tliink y'are not kind, some way, Father Nicholas,"
Raid t]ie elder.

Father Debree's expression and manner changed at the
remark from his brother priest, to wliich the kind-hearted
old man had just taken exception. AH hesitation disap-
peared at once, and an indignant look took possession of
his face, and he stood straight up to confront the speaker.

" You have tampered with the sacred privacy of the
place, then ? " he said. " Some ears have been listening
for you — (I care not whose) — where only two mortal
beings have a riglit to hear, and if so, you know well
tlie falsehood of any insinuation tliat you may make
against the character of my involuntary intercourse with
that person ; and I have a right to trust to a reputation
without blemish or reproach, and to an honest open con-
versation in the world for my defence, with those who
have known me, or who have hearts like Father Ter-
ence's, against any such insinuation.'*

'• I've made no insinuation, I believe ; I have merely
suggested the suspicions tliat might be held in the world ;
and it would seem from my reverend brother's intentional
or unintentional admission, that there is ground, in fact,
for \'he suspicion upon one or other of the points sug-
gested."

Though this was said in a very gentle tone, there was
a subtle emphasis, here and there, that made one feel a
sharp edge through the soft manner.

" I think, now, we've had enough," said Father O'Toole.
" Ye say y'ave made no insinuation ; and, indeed, I don't
know how anny one would make them, after hearing him-
self; and sure, Father Igiatius, can't /: say the same,
when y'are after hearing him read the paper a while

ago?"

THE THREE PIJIESTS TOGETHPZR.

.101

" If Fatlujr Nicholas had thonrrht fit to make — (what
I have not asked, but what the case appears to ask) — as
full a dis(!laimer as I have made, myself, I should take his
word for it ; but, iu the mean time, k/iowing, as I do, suf-
fieieiit evidene(^ to carry an appearance of probability
with it, I must reserve my ()[)iiiion. I should scarcely
RU])pose that the publication of that pajx-r, — omittinj; the
two or thn'e inijiortant words that would assure the reader
of the Dej)onent's never haviujr had any control over the
missing, or known of lier whereabouts, — would satisfy the
public, or her fi'iends."

" To apjdy your rule," said Father Nicholas, " I might
e^ay that you seem to be in the confuh'tice of those with-
out; to have sat ^in ecclcsin maligudnfinm ; '* but I think
with the Very Reverend Fatlu>r O'Toole, that we have
had enough of this. — I » .1 take care of myself; I hope
you will take care of yourself. At the wor.>t, the charge
against me involves only an excess of zeal in behalf of
the one, only Church of (iod, and the souls of men. I
am clear of any " iputation upon my moral character in
any other respect.^

"I hope so, indeed," said Father Terence, looking like
one who saw the clouds beginning to lift ; " but it's not
good to have too much zeal, either; and there's not a
ha'p'orth against our brother, here, unless, maybe, it's a
little thoughtfulness was wanting; and, sure, I wasn't
always ihorightful myself; and I think none of us was."

Father Nicholas spoke again : —

" As for the unhappy jierson who has been the subject
of a part of our conversation, slie has thrust herself into
the way of the advancing Church of God. The weight
is already on h<'r ; she will be crushed! I hope no one
else will be cau, lit in her ruin."

* In the assoniblv oj the malif^natit.

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362

THE NEW PlilEST.

" Is it, indeed, a car of Juggernaut that we would make
it ? " said Father Ignatius, repeating, perhaps involun-
tarily, an expression which had been lately used to him-
self, in l)itterness of heart. " I would never be a priest,
if, in order to it, I must cease to be a man."

" God forbid ! " said the kind-hearted old priest to
Father Nicholas's dark auijurv, — not having heeded what
was said afterwards. " We wouldn't wish her any harm,
poor thing ! But we'll just talk it over a bit, by-and-by."

" Then I won't be a hinderance to your counsels," said
Father Nicholas ; and, bowing gravely and formally, left
the room.

" And I'll tell you what we'll do," said the elder, as the
other went ; " have you nothing to do with her, if she
seeks ye itself ; and, if she stays there, we'll get ye away,
after a bit ; it'll be best ; and I'll not ask ye to tf 11 me
anny thing more about it."

As he said this, he stroked down his respectable and
kindly-looking locks, behind, and took his homely pipe.

" I would rather tell you the whole thing," said the
younger priest ; and he accordingly gave an account of
his first and the other meetings with Mrs. Barre, of which
the reader has already' been informed.

He spoke into friendly ears, and spoke without hiding
his strong feeling, though not without controlling it; and
Father Terence, having heard him, with sympatliy, to
the end, said, much as before, " Ye mustn't be there, if
she stays in it."

^:^.4

A MIRACLE.

363

CHAPTER XL.

A. MIRACLE.

E left judicial matters at Bay-Harbor just
as Mr. Attorney-general Kay, having had
both Mr. Bangs and Ladford at his lodgings,
had determined to issue a warrant.

There is always, m the [»ublic mind of a community
excited for maTiy days toirether, — as that of Conception-
IJay, and especially of I>ay- Harbor, had been, — a dis-
position to expect sometliing; and the presence of
attorney-geflrerai *nd sheriff's deputy among them, just
at this tirae, (occasioned a general ferment ,mong both
iimnan Catholii<?s and all others.

Rumors, of course, were abundant, within a few hours
after their laiiKiliiiig. It was said that a large military force
was to be eailed out, in case of need ; that the three judges
were to a>>4enil)le in Bay-Harbor; that five hundred
special con-stabU's had been sworn in ; that the Govei'uor
was coming down ; that all the English clergy in the
Bay hau. publicly requested their flocks to resort to the
scene of expected operations; that the Roman Catliojie
clergy had denounced, from the altar, the judges and offi-
cers of the law, and all who might aid or libel ihelii.

In the mean time, however, tiune was no appearancn
oi' extraordinary activity in cither attoiuey-^uUeml or

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3G4

THE NEW PRIEST.

deputy sheriff; no troop» marched through the streets ; no
cxowds from abroad gath(;red ; and so the day passed by
with no more serious disturbance of the peace than a
rough word or so, between occasional Peterport men
and others, and, before evening, tlie expectation of the
pubhc had much cooled.

Mr. Bangs, returning in the afternoon, after several
days' absence, repaired, Hke a dutiful disciple, to the feet
of Father O'Toole, for religious instruction ; slipping off
(so to speak) the attire of travel and trade, and putting on
the garb of meek and lowly scholarship. Some ripples
of the restless sea of public opinion must, of course, make
their way into this usually quiet retreat, for the v/ind blew
this way ; but, however it may have been with any other
inmates. Father O'Toole showed little feehng of the dis-
turbance without. With a peaceful equanimity, he held
his place, and went about his duty, as aforetime. All the
edifying and instructive conversation that occupied that
afternoon, we cannot repeat ; we keep to that which con-
cerns and influenced our plot.

After tea, to which the hearty man pressed his convert,
the American " wondered whether he couldn't go 'n
ex'cise, a spell, 'n th' chapil ; " and, after the explanation
which was necessary for the w^orthy priest, — who was not
familiar with the plirase, — he secured the key, and left
his instructor to his evening pipe.

It was not long before Mr. Bangs returned, without his
hat, in haste, and said he " wanted jes' to ask a question
't was on his mind. Father O'Toole," said he, " d' they
e.vfr have mirycles, or what not, *n your church ? "

" Whj, what d'ye mean, then ? " said Father O'Toole,
disturbed by the excited look and manner of his disciple.
•* Jhoi"; - nianny '^t' diem in it, but it's not every one sees
them."

A MIRACLE.

365

"Wall, Father O'Toole, what d' they look like?"
asked Mr. Bangs.

" Oh, all sorts o' things they look like ! Sure, I couldn't
mind the one half o' them."

" Can pickchers do 'em ? "

"Indeed, it's pictures does the most o' them, by all
accounts."

" Wall, I tell ye what, — 'f you b'lieve it, — that pickcher
o' your's there ain't a faint attempt ! 'T must be one o'
the pre-Adamite school, or a real Rayfael, 't Cap'n
Stiles's son uf.ed to talk about, b'fore lie got int' the
regular business o' painting carts, 'n' wagons, 'n' barns

b't, 's I's sayin' ; I guess ye'll think I've seen a

mirycle ! "

" Y'are dreamin', man, I think ! "

" I'm ruther wide awake, mos' gen'ally ; but the' wus a
round, bright place on the wall, b' that pickcher, '? big
as ."

" 'Tv/as the moon, it was," said the Frie-^t, getting : lore
interested.

" 'Twould 'a' ben a mirycle, any way ; for the moon
ain't up ; an' 'nother, too, 'f ye c'd see it through he
wall."

" It must have been a i-eflection of it, some wa^ ye
know there's eclipses and changes ; an' some o' them 'a
very quare, too, an' only come round once in a while."'

" I'm aware o' that, Father O'Toole," said the \ tieri-
ean ; " b't I wish ye'd jes' step over, 'f 'taint t( . much
trouble, 'n' take a look at it ; — I come right off. "

Father O'Toole complii^l, and the two went.

" I ruther laughed at winkin' pickchers, one spell," said
the disciple, by the way ; " but 't '11 be a startliu' sound
't the Day 'Judgment t' hear a pickcher singin' out I ook
a' here! I winked at ye, but ye wouldn't repent.'"

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366

THE NEW PRIEST.

Out of doors that night the stars and their surrounding
darkness had the wliole heavens to themselves, — no moon
was there. So clear, however, was the air, that the night
was not dark ; and it was cool enough, with the fresh
breath of the sea, to make a good draught of it a comfort.
The dogs seemed to enjoy it, and kej)t it in continual stir
with theix antiphonal barking ; throwing all through it a
melody as musical as that of some of the best Italian
boatmen, who breathe their lungs as stoutly as they stretch
their brawny arms, deforming Tasso's stately rhymes with
their coarse speech, and making the deformity all filthy
with foul garlic. The worst point in the vocal efforts of
our dogs is their remitting, but unwearied and unending
noisiness.

The occasional clink or thump of something on board
a vessel, or the steady plying of some patient oars, falls
pleasantly on the ear in this calm night.

Father Terence and his companion made their way
hastily through the dusk over the short distance that sep-
arated them from the chapel.

" Here's where I was," said Mr. Bangs, in a reveren-
tial and agitated whisper, groping in the darkness of the
place. " Shouldn't want t' go 'ny niglier ; " and he went
down dump iipon his knees. " Wunt you jes' take hold
an' lift up. Father O'Toole ? "

" An' what's it y'are afther, then ? " asked the Priest.

" Why, 'f 'taint to' much trouble, Father O'Toole,"
whispered Mr. Bang^. in an agitated \ oice, " t' take f 'r
a man, (an' 'n American, 't's jest steppin' on t' the Cath-
olic platform,) wunt you jest jine 'n prayer, — 'n Lat'n or
Greek, or what not, 'f ye want to, c'nsiderin' ye're a
priest, — 'can't do 'ny harm to i)ray, certin' ; — 've got a
bundle here, '11 be k'nd o' soft f ' yer knees ; 'n 'f you'll

)

.;,li

A MIRACLE.

3c:

kip a liftin' up pray'rs V supplications fo' me, (Elnathan
Bungs, ye know,) I'll be a kneelin' a little ways ofi' f 'm
ye, I'k' the publican."

" Indeed^ an' there's no harm 'n a few prayers, as ye
were sayin', Mr. Bangs ; an' it's the Catliolics are the
great prayers," said Father O'Toole, whose preparations
for going down upon his knees, as well as could be judged
by the ear, in tlie dark, were as deliberate and on as large
a scale as those of a horse.

"'F ye wunt think hard o' me f mentionin' it, 'don't
b'lieve 't '11 be a prayer, or two, 't '11 do. 'T must be a
c'ntinuin' on, luk Moses on Mount Hur, 'en Aaron took
'n' boosted 'm up," urged the convert, in a whisper,

agam.

Before the Priest had addressed himself fairly to his
work, but, as it seemed, after he had got o a lower pos-
ture, he snuffed tlie air and said : —

" Mr. Bangs, had ye the incense-boat, when ye wor in
it? or what's this w\arrm smell I feel, like something
hatin', I'd like to know."

" Wall, that's curi's ; I haven't had 'ny boat 'r ship,
'thout it's wo'ship. Sometliin' lieatin', ye say ? It's 's dark
's Egypt; 'n' I've heard Muther Byles Slack, 'n 'e 's
d'liv'rin' a Fourth o' July oration, talk 'bout ' simmerin' *
darkness ; ' b't 'never thought 'sh'd live t' see it," said
Mr. Bangs. " Le's pray 1 "

Intense silence followed, and darkness most intense
continued. The great crowd of a Sunday or a high fes-
tival, with smoking incense and pealing song, could not
be more impressive. A dr/cp, steady breathing, growing
plower, and deeper, and steadier, began to be heard from
Fatlier Terence.

* Ciinincrhm?

,ii.

368

THE NFW I'RIEST.

ift^.:

(»

Pi'esently a laiul crash stavtUH\ tlu' m-iest, and he ex-
olai'mt'd : —

" Mr. Ban<rs ! W\m's this ? "

" 'Mirycle's c'liimenoin', liKo\) ," answi^ed the Ameri-
can, in an excited wliispe v \ ''^ Hp^etU'd a voice a spell ago
callin' me by name, as plain 's I hear you ; 't seemed t'
be a voice o' c'nsid'blv power, but ruther softened, sayin'
'Mister Bangs!'"

" That's liko the Praste, Haly,* in the temple ! In-
deed, it's a wonder but it '11 say more t'ye. Ave Maria I
gratiae plena." f

" Hjj^Vv ? " asked Mr. Bangs; " 'T couldn't 'a' ben one

W CD ^

o' thv Haley s down t' Salem, 'twas a priest. Oh ! 'n the
Tii^iple o' Solomon, ye say. Father O'Toole ? — Wall — ."

At this moment something happened which restored
the intense silence that had been broken, and made even
the American a party to it. A light burst through or
upon the wall, (or so it seemed,) on which the picture
hi s^g. Father O'Toole breathed hard, and then all was
breathless. The light grew fixed and strong — a circle
like a great halo. The light was darkened by an advan-
cing figure, — it seemed of some animal. It took definite
shape and was still, then suddenly disappeared.

" Why, 'e's got hold o* th' wrong one ! " exclaimed Mr.
Bangs, in his whisper.

" Mater misericordise ! " t cried the Priest. " What's
this, at all ! Oh, Holy Virgin ! 'Twas one o' the souls
in Purrgat'ry I seen, in a figyer ! "

" Why, ye don't say ! " answered the convert.

" 'Twas, thin ! It's what we may all come to. 'Twas
a rat I seen ; its the way they look."

* Heli, as the name reads in the Vulgate and Douay.

t Hail, Mary, full of grace! \ Mother of Mercy!

ll«i;

A MIRACLK.

309

" Ye saw a rat ! Wall, I've heard o' smellin' a rat ;
I'm glad 'twa'n't Tensive t' yor oU'act'ries, 'm sure."

" How d'ye be able lo talk that way, aii' you seeiu'
what yc seen ! " said the priest, sternly.

At this point, again, all conversation was interrupted
by what followed in the lighted circle.

Again the light was dimmed by an advancing figure ;
this time, of a lady ; and as it stood still and became
more distinct, Father Terence exclaimed, in a tone of
the strongest feeling —

"It's Herself 's in it! Oh! Virgo Excellcns ! Virgo
Praiclara ! " *

" 'N Purgytory ? 'Thought yer reg'lar saints didn't
go into it," said Mr. Bangs, in spite of the excitement
and terror that appeared in his voice, yet finding exercise
for his tongue. " 'Guess that ain't Purgytory, Father
O'Toole."

" She's often in it, then — (Ave Maria I Turris Ebur-
nea ! Turris David ! Virgo Virginum ! t) -every Satur-
day,$ (Refugium Peccatorum ! §) an' other times, to take
out souls,"

The figure, though not perfectly distinct, certainly did
seem to wear the dress and had the air of the Vii gin in
the picture. Another figure began to show itself, and
was watched, doubtless, with fearful intentness ; the silence
was as perfect as before. It was a kneeling man.

" It's a praste ! " said Father O'Toole, in a low voice ;
and both were silent.

" W 't looks ainazin' like ."

* Virgin exce'lent! Virgin most noble!

t Hail Mary! Ivory Tower ! Tower of David! Virj^in of Virgins!

X This is affirmed by more luau one pope, upon the authority of

special revelations.

§ Kefuge of Sinners!

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" Don't say it, then ! " interrupted Father Terence,
with the most excited earnestness. " Oil I vvliatever '11
I do, at all! To be honored this a way! An' her witli
a crown in her hand ! "

*' W I couldn't stand it 'f 'twus me ; *sh'd go right oil',
in a minit," said Mr. Bang.^.

Another figure of a m;ui slowly appeared ; the figure
of the priest receded. The new shape came forward,
slowly, and as it grew entinj tmd clear, showed itself to
be sitting in an easy attitu<le, with a (comparatively)
modern hat in its lap. It stop[)e(l. The head received
the crown which had been waiting in the Virgin's hand.

*''t jest fits him!" said the admiring Mr. Bangs,
" looks handsome in it, too ! Ruther proni'n'nt chap,
sh'd judge."

" It's ye'rself, that is, anny way," said the Priest ; " an'
the crown manes that meself 's the instrument o' savin'
yer soul ! Ah ! if Father Nicholas was in it ! and the
rest o' them ! D'ye see it's ye'rself, Mr. Bangs ? — Indade,
I'm thinkin' the man 's killed!" The last words were
added as he got no answer.

" 'Tain't poss — wh' look a' here ! Wall, I never ! " cried
the American in confused alarm, after a pause in which
he seemed wrestling with his feelings.

The apparition disappeared ; and all was dark ; and in
that quarter, and in others, a noise was heard, though not
a crash, like that which had preceded the miraculous ex-
hibition.

There seemed a visionary or spectral flight along the
floor. There was a rattling and clinking, as in otlicr
apparitions (it may have been a sound of chains) ; and,
as in other apparitions, the door of the chapel opened
violently, and shut with the same violence, twice ; — and
all was still within.

A MIRACLE.

;J7I

The spectral lli<^lit was coiitiimcd on tlie out-'ide of llm
ch.'ipc'l, and even two Ppectral figures might liave been
seen crossing the o[»('n ground.

'' Look a' liere ! Mv. Frank," said one of tlieni to the
other. ''IIow, under the canopy, d'd you git that glass,
'til th' I'at on it, in? Didn't know 'twas there. Wall,
hold on, now ! Must let the folks all know 'hout the
niirycle, 'n' send 'em over." "With these words the
spectral figuni went up to the door of the nunnery, and
began to knock, earnestly. The moon was now near to
rising ; and a silver largess was scattered before its car.

" 'T's Mr. Bangs 't Fathcn' Terence 's ben convertin',
Miss Jerushy — I mean sister Theresy, — (I'm all of a
heap,) mii-yde, over here, 't ehapil! niirycle! mirycle ! "
(a shriek caiiK; from within, followed by another, and then
another.) "Father O'Toole wants every b'dy over; 'd
have sent a lady, 'f the'd ben one. Right over here, 't
the cha[)il ! "Wants ye all f ' witnesses ! "

Presently there was another hurtling in the air; and
spectral flight of many figures darker than night in which
they moved, towards the miracle-holding chapel. The
nuns left their own quarters to loneliness and silence.

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372

THE NEW PlilEST.

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CHAPTER XLl.

THE EXAMINATION IN FATHER O'tOOLE's LIBRARY.

St J '"

(Ol^ N the twilight of that evening, as the town, (except
for the sounds that we have mentioned,) lay still, a
man had been going round, outside the Mission
grounds; here in a thoroughfare, there over rough
ground, stopping a moment, here and there, with men
who came to him out of darkness, and went back to it
again. He walked fast along the whole front and a little
beyond ; across the street, and a like distance there, and a
little way down two cross streets.

" Here's a pretty go ! " exclaimed he, as he got back
and stationed himself, restlessly, near the middle of the
front, after examining his neighborhood pretty carefully.
" There he is, I believe ; he'd be a pretty sentry,
wouldn't he ? " he ended, going toward a man who was
approaching from the end of a cross-street, a little way
up.

" Ain't you a jolly fellow ? " he asked, in a cautious
way but very plainly, " if they had you in the army,
they'd make nothing o' shooting you, just as you'd shoot
a seal. " What did you go away for ? and where's
Isaac ? "

At this address the other stood aghast and made no
answer, scratching the side of liis fur cap.

EXAMINATION.

373

** Where have you been now ? To see if the boat's
safe ? " renewed his examiner.

" Why, Isaac's gone after 'era and I sid 'em, Skipper
Ch "

" Whist, now ! you can't remember a thing, Jesse.
Have you got my handkerchief?"

" No, I never makes use of one, Mister Gal ."

" There you go, again ; don't call me names ; but why
can't you remember the watchword, like all the rest ? "

" So I does, ' Have you got my handkerchief? ' Oh !
I sis, — " said the speaker, catching himself up, "you

wants I to give the answer : ' Tom Jones ' "

~ " That'll do ; if ever they tells you they'll give you
your life, if you'll tell 'em your name before they can say
Jack Robinson, you'll say, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
but I'm mistaken if you think of Jesse. Well what did
you see, then ? The ark of bulrushes ? "

" Wull," said Jesse, vindicating himself, " ef I can't
talk, I can do my work ; I suppose I've sid all that's abin
sid. However, I sid 'em, all go through this way, and
had somebody along wi 'em."

" Come, then, Jesse, where did they come from ?
Through that gate ? "

" Is, an' some soart of a carriage wi'era."

" Good ! That is to the point : men ? " inquired
Skipper Charlie.

" Both."

" How long ago ? "

*' A matter of ten minutes, raubbe, it was ; but I
can't say how many "

" And nobody's come back ? "

« No."

During this colloquy, the Peterport constable bad

*i\

374

THE NEW PRIEST.

»•«?:

WAV.

m '■**■■ -

never ceased directing quick looks towards the cross-
street before referred to, (if it may be called a street,)
and just about this point, he thrust Jesse suddenly down,
in a heap, upon the ground, pulled down his own hat and
giving a limp to his right leg, began to walk slowly
across the highway.

With a sound of his footsteps going before him, a man
soon emerged from shadow, who coming far enough out
of his way to look upon our limping friend, showed him-
self, at the same time, to be Father Nicholas, and then
passed through the gateway. By and by came along two
dark female figures, like nuns, and followed the same
course, except that they did not diverge in the direction
of the constable. '

Shortly after, a body of men silently and swiftly came
along the street ; and Gilpin, saying " Here's the Deputy-
sheriff and his men ! stay here, Jesse ; I'll be back in a
giffey ! " ran down towards the water.

The sheriff's party came straight up to the fence in-
closing the Mission-premises ; and there halted for some
minutes.

The delay enabled the Peterport constable to accom-
plish his errand ; and he got back again, just as the last
of them was going through the gate. He was about to
follow when information from Jesse that " he heard Mr.
Banks's voice over 'tother w'y, and a great noise," led
him in that direction.

Sounds from the chapel, as of attempts at the door,
and confused voices, grew louder and were multiplied, and
as they rose, the voice of the American began to be heard
again, within the nun's building, and a loud female cry,
itiso. Mr. Bangs was addressing, apparently, some one
"with whom he was walking.

f:xaminatiox.

" That's somcbMy carry'n' on 'bout the mirycle, likely.
Sht)uldn't wonder 'f she'd ben left behind, 'n' got acoi-
dent'ly loeked up. She'll keep, I ruther guess. 'T's over
t' th' chureh, he wants you, Holy Father."

" What do you mean l>y a miraele ? " impatiently asked
a voice which any person, who knew it, might at once
have recognized as that of Father Nicholas.

" Wall, 'taint f ' me t* say ; sh'd judge 't 'd be more
accord'n' t* th' laws o' science fo* you t' tell me. I'm on'y
jest learnin' ! — The ladies, here, 'v' all gone over t*
see it."

"Absurdity!" exclaimed the priest; but the intelli-
gence seemed to have quickened his motions, and saying
"I must put a stop to this," he came forth into the air,
leaving the shouting female to console herself.

" In the King's name ! You're my prisoner, Father
Nicholas Crampton ; r(;scue or no rescue ! " said one of
several men who met hiiu as he came out.

" We'll see about that, my friend," said Father Nicholas,
with his usual self-possession, " You'll have the kindness
to take me to the nearest magistrate, or, you'll have
trouble."

" Wall ! That ain't slow, fact ! " exclaimed Mr. Bangs,
« "W"' where on earth d'd you come from, Mr. Gal[)in ?
Y' ain't a goin' t' take a holy priest pris'ner ? Jest leave
him 'th one o' yer men, there, will ye, a mirit?' Want
t' speak 'th ye."

" Confine yourself to your own affairs, if you please,"
said Father Nicholas. " I want no interference with
mine."

"Wall, 'f ye're p'tic'lar 'bout it, I will," said INIr.
Bangs. " Look, a'here, Skipper, — 's the' call it,"— con-
tinued he, as the constable drew as^ide with him, " 'twunt

11.'.' 1 ' i,i

ffir.

liii

37C

THE NEW rUlEST.

be ncVry, I guess, f ' you to go a searcliin' th' buildin'.
I've jest bon all tbrongb it, fr'in top to toe. Tbat ain't
Lucy Harbury, 't's sinj^in' out ; t bat's a k'ud 'f a hune
pal, tiie' got tberc, — f 'r belp, liively, — Miad t' -ak(; 'ii' lo('I<:
ber up, t' gi' me a ebanee. Tbe' ain't 'ny sign o' JMis.s
Barb'ry 'n tb' wliole |)Iac(\"

Tbe Ameriean'rt extra official searcb was not quite
Ratisf'aetory to tbe Sberitr, wbo ilin'cted tbat be sbould be
taken into custody ; and tben, leaving tbe Head Constable
to secure Fatber Terence and tbe nuns, took Fatber
Nicbolas and Sister Tberesa to tbe presence of tbe Judge,
wbo, witb some of tbe district magistrates, bad occupied
Fatber Terence's library.

"Wbere's tbe Triest?" asked Gilpin.

" He's p'ticl'ly engaged," said Mr. Bangs, wbo bad not
lost bis tongue ; " but you don't want bim. He never 'd
hurt anybody."

" He's wanted for witness," said tbe constable ; '' and
you too, Mr. Banks."

" Wall, I know more 'bout it 'n he does ; 'n' that ain't
much. 'F the's anybody 't wouldn't do 'ny hurt to a flea
't's Fatber O'Toole."

They drew near to the Chapel ; and the stout voice of
Father Terence was heard, uplifted, behind tbe door : —

" Will no one open it, then ? I fear we'll never re-
cover him : it was just fit to die with the fright, he was ! "

The nuns huddled and cackled about the fastened
door ; but there was not a hand among them that could
find the key to turn it.

" Wh' how's this, ladies ? Couldn't ye git in ? " asked
the American convert, as he drew near.

" And is that yerself, Mr. Bangs ? " inquired the im-
prisoned priest.

n' '

EXAMINATION.

377

« Wall, Vs what iisft to bo, I b'lievn. Father OToole."

" An' how d'ye be on the outsitlo, an' the door Icc-kcd
between ? "

" 'J'hat IS a (juestion, fact. — They' got me under arrest,"
he added, turning from Past to Prescait.

It may be supposed that what had already happened,
not far otf, including the arr(^st of Father Nicholas, had
not been unobserved by the nuns ; but between the mira-
cle, and Father O'Toole imprisoned, on the one side, and
the alarming doings on the other, they had quite lost con-
trol of thenjselves. At the word "arrest," tlujy all turned
about with a new alarm, and fled again, (velut examen,)
swarming over, to tiuur hive.

Father O'Toole was released immediately, by the con-
stable, and was a good deal bewildered, as he reached the
open air.

Gilpin did his part respectfully, making his bow.

" I'm to ask you if you'll please come with me, sir," he
said. " It's only a bit of evidence is wa.iting ; and will
you be good enough to ask all of those ladies to go
along?"

Father Terence submitted, resignedly, to circumstances ;
and, having had the g<;neral state of things explained to
him, secured the attendance of the nuns, and then, him-
self, accompanied the constable. Froyne clapped his
hand with peculiar constabular unction and pretty heavy
emphasis, on the " convert's " shoulder. Mr. Bangs
rather led the constable than was led by him, as was
intended.

The party went silently ; but there were buzzings of
gathering throngs of men, in different quarters, indicating
that what had been done ht.d not been done without being
observed. Knots of men, alsO; were gathered in the street

37J^

TIIK NKW IMIIKST.

'mi

in front ofllu* Mission ; but non<* were pcnnillcjl to (Mifor;
nn«l no distnrhMni'c was MttcnipttMl.

Tlio .lii<l!j;(' mill liis assrssors nicl i\\r piisontMN :in«l
M'iMu'ssos sliuwliu^; mihI (li(> (ornicr cxplaiiiiMl to FjitlMT
Toivn<'«» that lie liad not intciKicil to take violent posscs-
HJon of his lionsc ; hut, if Iw liatl pn-nrssion, tlion<j;lit it
well to <'on(lnrt as privately as possible, an "xannnation
wliieli lu» was abont to make, antl wliieli involved nnuu'
or all of tin' ocenpants of the premises.

Father Terenee thanked him for his eonsideration, and
bej;<j:ed him to do as he pleased ; bnt said that he "wits
astonished at what was «roin<; on, anny way."

The .Tud^e and majjist rates seated tln'mselvcs, and the
jnd^e. havi'«jMr called tor the pap(»rs, laid them open on
the table befon^ him, and ran over one of tlH>m with his
eye. The Aftorney-ij;(MU'ral stood by, in reailiness.

The SherilT havin<5 been directed to have the {jrisoners
in the opposite room nntil called for, removed all but
Father Terence, who was first examintMl. It was clear
from v^": good pri(>st's answers to :i very few courteous
questions of the Altorney-ujcMieral, that he knew nothing
that would throw any light, whatever, on the disappear-
ance or fate of Lucy Harbury. lie was at once dis-
charged; but by invitation of the judge, remained in the
room. Attorney-general Kay waited till he was seated.

After a short questioning of Father Debrce, the Judge
said that he had seen no reason before, and saw none
now, for 8Uj)posing that he knew any thing of the case;
and he was «lischarged. The Attorney-general bowed.

Mr. Bangs being svnnmoned and questioned, gave, in a
characteristic way, and, at first, with a redundancy which
the Judge found it necessary to rej^ress, an account of his
seeing the man and the women carrying, as it ap[)eared,

I'X AM I NATION.

37'J

Runc pi^rsoii frnm Mr. Ursfon's lioiinr <l«)wn tin* ••lifT; nud
oC Ills jifitT «'X|M'ri«'iH'«« in llir inm;i"r)'. TIh" f^ravily of
\\\v \\M\]X\>*\\'i{\o>*, and even of IIm' Jm<I;.';(', whs n(» armor of
pioof ajiainst some of his answers. His cvidcnr*' occu-
pied loo nuicli spac«« (o Ik* inscrlcd llcr^^ The snhslani'O
of it \h ah'cady i<no\vn.

SImIjm' Thrrcsji wiw next rali«'d. From hor it appeared,
"the nuns often had slianj;ers >(ayin;ij with th(!m (women) ;
that a ^irl, said to he ont of her mind, had htten hrou^^ht
to tlie house ahoiit eh>ven o'clock at ni^hl, on (lie lil-
te«'nlh : hy Father Ni<'holjis*M direction, only SistcM* Fran-
ces, the inlirmarian, and Sister A;^nes, evr huw her.
She waM jrone on the twentieth. These nnns were away.
AVilness did not know where tiiey were, nor whether tlu^y
were to come hack, or not."

Th(^ witness had not heard whetluT t]w. sick girl was of
anotJK'r faith ; an«l supposed she mij^ht, perhaps, liave heeu
8uch. UiHlerstood that on lh(^ ni«:;ht of llu^ nineteenth she,
escaped, and the witness had wot heard of her l)ein»]r !•(•-
covmmhmI ; hnt had Imm-u told hy I^\'ilher Ni('hoIas that she
could not be found, 'i'o a plain question whetluM' she
had ever in her min«l thought that that *;irl was the one
who was inissin^j; frotn I'eterport, the Sist<'r, very mucli
airecfiMl, answered " Yes." — 'I'o farther qu(vstions, she said
that she did in>t exactly know why she had thought so;
certain coincidences of titin^ and ai;e, and tlu? mystery
that was kept about it, hi'd probably su^p;e<ted the thouj»ht ;
that she thought the f^irl niijrht have been called by
another name than that she commoidy bore, or had
previously borne.

There was an apparent simplicity and ingenuousness
about the witness that would have satisfied any mind that
what she said was all she knew. She was dismissed,

'Mm

OUV.

TIIK NKW PRIEST.

with n roqiicst to hold luTsclf ready, for an hour, to ho
rccMllcd, if tiicp' should hv occasion.

'I'iic cNaininalioM of (he oth<'r Minis was very hriof.
As tiir as they had any information, their answers (;xa(;lly
nj^reed with Sister Theresa's testimony, and tiiey were
absolutely discharj^ed.

Ilavin;^ ascertained that th<^ Urstons liad not arrived,
the Crown procotided to examiin; Father Nicholas; prc-
faein«:f ids questions, as in tlu^ case of Sist«'r Theresa, with
an expression of rejijret f()r the occasion. TIh^ Priest was
not put upon oath; and it was (>xplained to iiim that 'Mie
need not brinj^ liimself into danjier hy answering; and
thougii a prisoner iiad no rtff/tf, to counsel, he would have
the privile;j^e, if he desired it."

Father Nicholas looked as self-possessed and de-
termined as always, and bcfrfxed the .judj];e to explain
to him the nati're of the dan^^er that he might incur,
and to let him know, exactly, the ohjtict of the examina-
tion.

The Judge explained that the object was to ascertain
whether he wjis in any way privy to the disappearance
of a young person, one Lucy Barbury ; and the danger
that he might put himself in was that of furnishing evi-
dence against himself.

"What if I d«'cline submitting to anv questioning?"

" I shall at once commit you to jail."

" And if I should bid you do it and welcome ? "

" Of the propriety of my course I shall, in any event,
judge for myself; and therefore it would be quite un-
necessary on your part."

Father* Nicholas bit his lip ; but answered that he was
satisfied, and ready to be questioned. He would not ask
for any counsel.

!!l

KX AM I NATION.

nsi

examinii-

All questions as (o liis own wlM-roabonts, on the fif-
tiM-ntli of tliaf inontli, or knowlcd;;^ of Lucy liarlmry, on
or al'fcr llial day, Ik; ilcclinod answering. Several stran-
gers had sinee stayed with the nuns, he said, in answer.

" Have you sent away, or procured to go away, any
nuns from this eonunuuity, within two w(!eks ? " (He-
ciined.)

'' Do you know of any nuns having gone away within
two w('(!ks ? " " Yes."

" Do you know to what phiee they went ? " " No."

" Do you know where they now an; ? " " No."

" Where they have been ? " " No."

" Have you sent away, or |)ro(;ured, or advised, or
given means for, the going away of any fishermen, or
boatmen, or other men, within two we<;ks?" (Declined.)

" Let me advise you," said the Judge, " that any of
these questions, that admit of easy answer, you should
answer ; for it will not oidy further the ends of justice,
but be better for yoursidf."

The Priest this time retaiiat "d for the tone of decision
and authority with which he had himself been addressed
at the beginning ; and his eye flashed, and he smiled
slightly, as he answered : —

" The ends of justice I need not think so much of just
now ; but my own secin-ity and interest I feel quite com-
petent to take care of."

The Judge bowed gravely.

" Have you any stat(!ment to make ? or do you wish to
say any thing upon the subject or matter of this exami-
nation ? A record is kept, of which a copy will be fur-
nished to the Grand Jury."

" I have only respectfully to refer to a certain affidavit
published by me two days ago, of which I will ask leave
to procure a copy."

I f

082

THli NKW PKIKST.

i I '' :

/.'^ '^

" I liav*^ one licrc. It dorsn't incddh' with tlui rniiiii
|>oiiil. — 1 should h«' <;hul to ;j;ivL' you inon; time, and wouhl
ur^c upon you njnuin l\w importance of t'lrarin«» up any
thiiinr cMpahh' of clcariii'^ up ; for I sliall fcrl it neces.sary,
as thinjj;s now stand, to hohl you to answer to the terrihh;
char<i;e of liorniciih; ; as I think the jifirl may be traeed to
your custody, and you neitiier produce; her nor offer any
explanation, but studiously conceal every thing connected
with the fact. Tiiis concealment itsj'lf may be held, in
such a case, to furnish evidence of criminal intent. As
there is no conclusive j)roof belorc; me yet, of guilt, and
as the body has not been found, 1 shall admit you to bail
in a sullicient sum — two thousand pounds."

The mention of the startling character of the charge
sent a thrill through tlu; company present, and even vis-
ibly affected the accused himself, but only momentarily.

" I am astonished," said he, " but in nowise alarmed.
A charge so uttei-ly baseless cannot be sustained for an
instant. I don't know who is at the bottom of it ; but
while it can do me no harm, it will do him no good."

As his eye passed romid the room, in saying this, a
liasty look of something like defiance flashed into his face
at one point of the circuit, l)ut went out instantly : — at
that point the sad, handsome features of Father Debree
were to be seen.

The Urstons, father and son, examined separately, un-
der oath, answered readily all questions, but, however
tried, never contradicted themselves or one another ; nor
did any thing appear, strange as it might seem, showing
any participation on their |)art, or knowledge of the mys-
terious disappearance. The fact of the young man's
attachment to Skipper George's daughter, and of his
abandonment of pniparation for the priesthood, appcjued

[\\{\ injiin
nil would
rr up any
lercs.Hary,
le ternbl«i

traced to

otter any
con!ieete«l
)e held, in
itent. Aa

guilt, and
you to bail

the eharnje
d even vis-
men tar ily.
^e alarmed,
jned for an
of it ; but
ffood."
ying this, a
nto his face
tantly : — at
icr Debree

[arately, un-
ft, however
lother; nor
|m, showing
)f the mys-
Lung man's
and of his
ll, appeared

EXAMINATION.

163

from his father and otiior witnesses. At the same tinu»,
there were plenty of J'oterport men at luuul, who knew
and testified that botii father and son had been out in the
Hearch from about dark till early morning, and that thit
bon had been ever since, for nuich of his time, occupied
iu trying to find some trace of the lost maiden.

Mrs. Calloran appeared to be tlu; only one of t)ie fam-
ily who was at home during the time at which the party
had been seen to go from the house to the water. Slu;
was not sworn, and was cautioned not to endanger herself.
This caution slui heard twice over and then threw herself
upon her guard, like a hedgehog, armed at all points with
wariness and suspicion.

She said (in answer to a question to that ettect) that slio
had seen two nims at Peterport two weeks ago ; but then
corrected herself by saying that she had often seen mms
there, and " begged his lordship not to be asking ques-
tions at her, to get her into trouble ; for she was not
larn'd."

The j)unt overhauled by Captain Nolesworth, seemed,
at this examination, like a phantom-bark. No evidence
could trace one of the crew or occupants.

In default of £200 bail, the last witness was committed
to the custody of the jailer.

In lialf an hour, bail had appeared for Father Nicho-
las, hi<» two sureties being, one a Churchman, and the
other a Roman Catholic merchant.

So the examination was ended.

" They've gone after that punt, have they ? " asked
the Attorney general of the SheriflF, who, having made
inquiry, answered, " Yes, and that she would soon be
heard from."

" Who went in charge of the pursuit ? There may be
a good deal depending."

THE NEW PRIEST.

« I'm told he's the surest hand in the Bay," answered
the ShcriflF, and then added something in a low voice, to
which the Attorncy-jjeneral answered : —

" You must make sure of the chief witness for the
Crown being forthcoming, and find the Body I *'

A NIGHT'S BOAT-RACE.

385

CHAPTER XLII.

A night's boat-race.

I HEN Gilpin left Jesse Hill standing near the
Mission, as mentioned in the last chapter, it
was to run to the boat's crew, waiting at the
water-side. Three of them were there and had seen
nothing and heard nothing stri.nge or noticeable. Two
of their number were off in one direction, and two in
another, one way up and one down the harbor, scouting.

" There's the Priests* punt, then, anyway, and no life in
her," said Skipper Charles. " I'll bide here, a-bit. It
can't be long, if they've got any gumpshi.n amongst 'em."

Upon the word some men came hurrying ; these were
from up the harbor. Our constable had his wits about
him, more than ever, that night. Before the men have
got to him, he sends off, post-haste, for the other couple,
down the harbor, and his ear is open for the story of the
comers.

The carriage was the only one, such as it was, in a long
walk, in those days ; nothing for horse or horses, but a
hand-wagon, so to say, known every where as Peter
Laverty's.

It had gone down with plenty of whispering, but in no
great hurry, to Bryan's stage ; and there, after much bus-
tle, had transferred its load, or, at least, what seemed a

1 ' {''

' :f 1

38(5

THK NKW ruiiisr.

siok woman, was liftod out of it, luul pjissod into .a boiif ;
thii Priost saiil " INIind!" tlio men nnswHM'od " V«'s, your

rOV(M(M»Cc,'' jUhI tii«-li xdViO ot thi; » «>iii|tiili y wciii liiick.

'Vhvi ni(>:isur('(l sound of oars t-anjo on tlio car as tin's
Innriod report was made ; it was tlni boat.

** Now ! our otiior hoys! Tlioy loliows unis' sliow us
ji piod load, if they think wo won't conio up to tlioin.
Thoy'il liavo nothiuij; inuoh start of us, hut tho host hojit
iu tho IVy." (Zohodoo Manhant (liis spokosuiau was.)

" Aro yon Ihorc. LatHord ? " askod Skipper CiiarU's.

"Ay! I'm iiere," said a silent man, sitting on a keg
and smoking.

" You know what ileptMuhMiee tluM'c is on you, lo-night,"
«ii«l the const ahle.

" I can't say lor that ; hut if there's aught for luc to do,
ril try and do it. Now, then, lads! there's your com-
raiU's ; " and Ladlord's pip«> was gone sud(h>nly, like u
tiretly llown ; and luwt, he himself had «lisappeare<l below
th(> stage-lu>ad. Down w<'nt the others, (ho whole boat's
crew, six, seven, counting Ladlord.

"Tlu>re's i/our comnnssion, Will Ladford — let's see —

we've got documents enough i'or to-night, the little

one, — v«>s, that's il. — \jO[ 'cm get clear o' the harbor, you
know^ "

"1 don't go skipptM-," said Ladford, as if settling a
point which was mooted between them; "hut don't los(?
time upon it ; some on us '11 do wha''s wantun. I don't
want to tak(r hold o' one o' tlu^y things. I'll take helum,
or stroke-oar, or bow-oar. Don't gi' me none o' they j).';-
pei's ; I've seen too much, and I've — shove off. Take it,
you, Zippity. Up mainsail ! Up fon'sail ! Brail uj) till
we get out. Oars ! (tivc it to her, boys 1 Take it easy ;
we shall want our arms, bumby."

"I"

A NfOIirs nOAT RACK.

.187

All Lndford's lifflo Ppoc cli, tlioiigli

nin-s ^Mvcii, WMH drlivM-n-d willi jiist ihrcn
vrunifxh to fjinnr its ir»c!iniii<r to the n\r^ for wliicli it vvum
in(<'!i(l('(|, iiiid very littl(> iiolHr whh, altdfrrtlicr, made by

tli(^ d('|>{iftiii<5 ""'■'•f- ^^'ilpi" and Isanc, passinjjia word t
t^ctlMT, went away in company.

H' inooti is not up yrf, hut is risirifr, and, tlu»uj;li
above tiu'iii, ban fiot liiirly put. down and compinrd llie
fj^rrat, damp sbadows tiiat croiicb ami biik nbotit.

On! into (br sircatn, tln-n ontward to tin'. Hay, all

i<i;, onr boat f)ulls
«! nearer to

Hleady and slili, and Will Ladlord Hieerii
on, nnieb in tlie eonrse of tlie otiier, bnt a liltl
tbe town, to liave tbe weatlier-f^an^i^e, If possibb", wbafever
tlie cbase may mean to d(». A Utile beyond tbe island in
tbe barbor, tbey see tin; rival boat abead, feelin^r tbe fipst
wind bnt settin;r no sail as yet; only tbe wafer is (birke,n-
in<jj all ab«)nt tbem, as it is ron^rliened np by tbe freslu^n-
in^ breeze. Tben, belong onr men bave (r(,f, into it, tbo
otbers spread tlieir sails, put off tbeir bow a point or
two, and tbeir sli;j;bt craft leans over as if sbe were
listenin^r to tbe fi:nr<rllnjr .,nd tbe rip|)lin;; at ber side.
Onr men sweep on, witb a p^ood, stron^^ steady sweep,

and not a word said. Tbe 1

)reeze be<jjins to come in flaw

lemptinn; tbe sails ; bnt (be of ber;^, abead

, are carry in;:^ o

itr

le oar chariire

all tli(! wind in tbeir canvas ba'^s. Tbere are notbin"
bnt little flaws bere — bnt a few strokes of tl
tbin^ijs wonderfnily.

" Now jrive hvv ber winnrs, lads," said Will Ladford,

and sbe fbitters tbeni once or t
her eonrse like tbe other.
" Sbe 1

wiee, an

d tl

»en IS settin

imps a little, to-night," said Ladford. They un-
derstood him as sj)eaking of the boat pnrsned, and one of

them answered, " Tlien si

le's not well bandl(Ml, I'm think-

iiP»

388

THE NEW PRIEST.

in'." They all felt that their own was managed as it
ought to be.

" We're gainin' on her ; we're drawin' up wi' her ; we
shall overhaul her, if we goes on at this rate," they said.

" We'll see that ; " said Ladford ; " but if we can't one
w'y, we can another. We can pull up wi' her, ef there's
no more wind stirrin' than this, and they can't help or
hender us."

A race of sail-boats in a moonlight night, iS a very
pretty thing ; but here, while the whole land was lying
sleeping, what warm and eager life was going in these
boats ! All eyes among William Ladford's company were
set toward the little sloop ahead.

" Somebody's got hold of her that knows hisself pooty
well, for all," said \V ill Ladford, " but he's losin' ground
upon us, I believe. There's a strange caper ! There
goes his gaff-topsail ! What can they mean ? There !
they've got it up again ; the halyard gave way. That'll
help us on, many a good foot ; " and indeed his little
boat seemed to be pulling the other back, while she ad-
vanced herself.

Both parties were as still as two deep streams flowing
on under the night. About the boat there is a constant
babble of waters, as of travellers overtaken on the road
and passed. Ladford's companions — most, or all of them
— gazed through the moonlight, under the sails, at the
little sloop and those she carried — dark, silent figures, and
a sort of heap, or crowd, or something that was not fisher-
man, and might be, — lying on a couch, or bundled up,
in the boat's bottom — the lost Lucy. Ladford sat up
straight and steered, looking all ways, without moving his
head, and at the same time seeming to have his eye on
any one that looked towards him. With his old canvas

A NIGHT'S BOAT-RACE.

389

hat and shabby clothes, most meanly dressed of all of
thera, (and you have heard his speech too, just the coarse
dialect of the island ;) he looked poetical and picturesque.
If you give a man command, whether it be of a body of
men, or of a horse or of a boat — something that has a
power and will of its own, — there is always this interest
about him, and the more in proportion as the force and
will controlled are greater. One man, a genius for ex-
ample, full of power and passion, is a nobler object, con-
trolling and commanding himself, than almost any. But
to our chase !

There was Belle-isle, away ahead, with its great, deep
shadow, making the water look so dark and deep, and,
except to eyes that knew it and saw what was not to be
seen in this light, there was no separation, to the sight,
between the island and the main beyond, or between the
island and its companions. Great and Little Kelley's, or
however the lesser one is called.

They are coming near the boat ahead of them, and not
a word is said on either side.

" Tim Croonan," said Will Ladford, giving to his
companions the name of the other helmsman, as if he
just touched each of his boat's crew with a conductor
of magnetic influence — the sound not being wasted or
spreading out beyond. In the other boat no noise or
motion of the people indicated their consciousness of any
body's being on the water but themselves. Steadily the
following boat drew up a little to windward of the sloop.

" Hail him, you Zippity ! " said Ladford, and as the
words left his lips, Zebedee flung his hail, in quick, sharp
voice — there was no need of loud — over the water. It
struck upon the bellying sails, and part of it came back.
It seemed as if it all came back ; at all events it did not

III

390

THE NEW PRIEST.

seem to touch the people in the other boat, more than so
many dead men sailing in moonlight on the sea.

''Ahoy, Skipper!" was flung across again; " hilloa,
there ! " but with no more efTect than if he and his were
all in the soundest sleep. On they all went again, in si-
lence ; the moon shining, the shadows stretching, the
water babbling ; but two men do not keep along, side by
side, in street or highway, if one or both be waiting for
an opportunity, without soon coming into communication.
So it was here. The boats were nearly abreast of each
other, and thirty or forty yards apart.

" Can ye find never sea-room for yourself, but must
be coming and taking the wind out of us, intirely ? " asked
the man whom Ladford had called Tim Croonan, turning
hplf round and then back again. He spoke like a man
that is insulted ; but this time there was no answer out of
Ladford's boat.

" Why don't you answer un, then, Zippity ? " asked
Ladford, gently ; " you knows I want to keep myself
quiet."

" But you're the oldest of us, and you can do it best,
too," answered Zebedee.

" That's Misther Ladford, it is," said Croonan, stretch-
ing out the words, as if he were jainting them in very
large letters, to the eyes of his hearers, with a hand
pointing at them. " Misther Ladford, and nothing less."

" We don't want to quarrel, Mr. Croonan," said Zip-
pity, taking up his office at this juncture, " We've got a
little business with you, that's all."

" Wid me, is it, ye have business ? This is a purty
time and place to come on business afther me ; and the
more to it, that I think I don't know yiz, nor ever seen
yiz in my life, unless it's Misther Ladford, there," (em-

A NIGHT'S BOAT-RACE.

391

than so

« hilloa,
his were
lin, in si-
ling, the
;, side by
liting for
inication.
of each

but must
? " asked
n, turning
ike a man
^'er out of

?" asked
p myself

do it best,

ri, stretch-
(1 in very
a hand
ng less."
[Said Zip-
've got a

a purty

I; and the

^ver seen

re," (em-

phasizing and stretching the word^^ ngain,) " and I don't
know him too well. Is it me, alone, or the whole iv us,
yeVe got bu-<iness with ? "

Will Ladford, saying nothing, eased off his mainsheet,
or let his mainsail go, a little, so as not to get ahead, but
to keep even pace, while his spokesman answered : —

" It's with all of you, I suppose. Is Lucy Barbury in
that boat ? "

" Who's Lucy Barbury, then ? And what's it to you,
I'd like to know, who's in this boat ? " inquired Croonan.
"Give that topsail a stretch, now, so."

Up went the topsail ; the sheets of the other sails rattled
a little as they ran, and the sloop was beginning to hold
her own or more. In came Ladford's mainboom, again,
a hand's breadth or two, and another hand's breadth or
two, until he was satisfied.

" We've come to look after Lucy Barbury," said Will's
spokesman, following up his advance.

" Well, look afther her, then ; and take care ye don't
miss her, the light being a little dim, ye know," returned
Croonan.

" We don't want to mistrust e'er a one ; we wants only
just to know ef Lucy's there, that's all."

" Them that's in this boat belongs here, is all I've got
to say, at the present time."

" But if she's there she doesn't belong there, and that's
all we want to know. Will you please to tell us what
female you've got there, then ? "

" No, I will not ; only she's not your's, anny way. Ye
may take yer oath of that, if ye like."

Ladford, having the weather-gauge, used it, and kept
away a little for the sloop.

" If you run into us, or come foul of us, — mind, if we
don't sink ye ! " said Croonan sternly.

i 11

,i ^

392

THE NEW PRIEST.

n>!

Ladfbrd said nothing ; but his boat was running down
the diagonal that would bring her up, before long, with
the left, or larboard, bow of the other.

" Now, I think I've given you fair warning," said the
helmsman of the latter. " Tell me, now, will ye keep
away ? — Boat-hook, Paddy ! " he said, aside, to one of
his crew. — " I say, will ye keep away, now ? "

They drew nearer and nearer; scarce three boats*
lengths separated them.

" I warn ye, now, to keep clear of us ! " repeated
Croonan.

" Will you plase just to let us see who you've got ? "
asked Ladford, taking, for the first time, a part in the con-
versation. " It's only because of Lucy that's lost ; and
sure, ef it was your case, you'd want the same. Will
you only let one of us come aboard ? "

" Misther Ladfbrd's found his tongue, at last ! I thought
mebbe, you'd got a cold, being exposed to the weather,
and not being used to it. Now, I tell ye there's no
Lucy Barbury here ; Avill that do ye ? " said Croonan.

" You've put us off so, we'd like to look for ourselves,
if you plase," answered Zebedee, taking up his office

agam.

" I'm thinkin' ye'll wait till ye're axed, then," said the
other ; " and mind, I warn ye, if you meddle with this
boat, if I don't sink you, or do harm to you ! "

Ladford kept on, and came within a boat's length.

" Take you the helm, Paddy," said Croonan, hastily.
" Give me that ! " and, snatching the boat-hook out of
Paddy's hands, as he ran forward, he laid hold of the
end of Ladford's foremast, which leaned over towards him,
and bore down upon it with all his weight.

"I'll give them one small piece of a ducking, anny

•I.:

A NIGHT'S BOAT-RACE.

393

way, that I don't think '11 do any harrm to them ; " and, aa
he bore down, the water already began to gurgle against
the rowlocks, along the gunwale, and to come into Lad-
ford's boat in a thick waterfall.

Saying nothing, the helmsman of the boat which was
thus going gunwale under, in the midst of that wide bay,
at night, and where it might be thirty fatlioms, or fifty, or
a hundred, down to the bottom, thrust up an oar, just as
it was wanted, again * the mischievous weapon, and
cleared the mast from its hold. Before Croonan got his
balance again, and got the wield of his boat-hook. Lad-
ford's little craft had righted, and he was at the helm.
She felt the wind, and got her headway once more, which
she had nearly lost. As they drew up again, Ladford
said : —

" I don't want to quarrel with any man. I want to
keep quiet, and clear of all mischief: but don't 'ee try that
again, friend. 'Ee can't ketch us another time, and if 'ee
breaks our mast, when we won't let it go down, next time,
it '11 be a provocation. 'Ee'd better let one of us come
quietly aboard of 'ee, and right back again."

The boat-hook took, this time, the direction of the gun-
wale, and, resting on it, kept the two craft asunder.
Ladford put up his helm, and his boat, turning on the end
of the boat-hook as on a fulcrum, brought her bow right
up against the breast of the other, flinging the latter,
also, at the same time, up into the wind. Croonan raised
his boat-hook, and brought it down in the way of wreaking
summary vengeance on thi.: determined non-combatant's
head. It grazed the shoulder of the man it was intended
to stun or admonish severely, and, at the instant, he, seiz-
ing it with one strong back hand, as he stood, brought the
other over to it, and pulled in on it. For his part, the

! N

i (I

394

THK NK^V PRIEST.

r (J

! !■

1 fe 'J

M^M : i?

holdor of the other end «*lung to it, not to he robbed of
hia own bont-liook, juul tlie two boats now came together
astern, both heading up into th(> wind.

At sea, one learns to do twenty things in litth' time,
and in hot moments one enn do twenty times as mneh as
eonimon ; so the boats' eoming together was not the only
thing that was aeeomjdished now. Tim Croonan went,
sideways and baekwards, overboard in a moment.

All this seene, being mannged and shitted by those who
understood it, was very short ; but a good deal more was
done in it than has been reeorded. When things began
to thieken, a female voiee was heard, alarmed, and crying
out, " not to get into trouble." Tim Croonan's comrades
hurried aft, to rescue him, — (and let it be remembered
that fishermen and sailors nirely know how to swim). —
The cry was, " Where is he ? "

Ladford called John, and, putting his mouth close to
the other's ear, said, in a most emphatic voice, " Keep a
sharp eye about this man /or sharks."

"Is that, there, the oidy lady or female there is on
board?" inquired he, aloud, as unmoved as if he did not
care a straw for the man's life, which might be washed
out by the waters of this cold, dark bay, like the life of a
tobacco-i)ipe, or crunched out by obscene and hideous
teeth.

" You're a man, are ye, then ? " as^ked one of the other
crew. " A man's drowning ! Where is he ? Where is
he ? What's that, there ? " many voices joined in crying
out.

Whether it was that the smuggler of other days had got
his old nature alive in him, as things began to warm, or
for whatever reason, Ladford took no new animation into
him. " He's safe enough," said he. " Look there, some

A NIGHTS BOAT-KACE.

395

bbcd of
toj^cthcr

tie time,
much as
the only
an went,

•

hose who
more was
ijrs be<;an
nd crying
comrades
iiembered
I swim). —

h close to
^ " Keep a

here is on
lie did not
Ibc washed
le lite of a
id hideous

the other
Where is
in crying

lys had got

warm, or
Ration into
kerc, some

of ye. forward, and sec ef there's no more in the t'other
one. No Lucy ? "

" No ! no Liicy," was the answer. " There's two of
'em, but no Lucy ! "

So this night sail, excitement, and bad blood; — nothing
had come of it, unless it should give rise to future (juar-
ruls. Ladibrd and all liiA men had hoped, and hope had
become i'arncst, as they drew near the object of their
chase. They did not know how nuich their hope had
been until they lost it; and now they were hardly ready
for any thing, so <lisap|)()iuted were they, lias the reader
been disappointetl ? lie knew what these boatmen did
not, yet.

It was not so with the other crew. They could not be
idle or listless.

" Down with that fellow ! He's murdering Croonan !
Strike the bloody fellow down ! Let go of that man, I
tell you now ! He's holding him down in the water!"

Ladtbrd had providently widened the distance between
himself and them, and he had their boat-hook. Oars,
therefore, were their only weapons of offence, or means
of gra[)pling. Several oars were lifted in the air ; but
Ladford threw them all up with a weapon of words.

" Have a care, now, friends. I've said I want to be
peaceable. Ef you wants to help your friend, avast with
your striking. I've done more'n I maned to done, for I
did not mane to do the laste vi'lence to e'er a one ; but I
haven' done much. This man thought to give us a wet-
ting, — so he said, — and he've agot one. Here, then,
friend, take to your own boat. I'm sorry to 've adoned
any thing ; but you brought it on yourself."

As he said this, the noise and stru<];gle, which had been
going on near the stern of his craft, was explained by his

0:l<

396

THK NEW PRIKST.

hofirinpj round, with his arm. to the opnn spaoo between,
the body of Tim Croonan, whom he iuul be(ui keeping,
uiid keeping in the water, by u iiold of his clothes, from
which tlie man in tiie water had not been able to disen-
gage himself. Croonan had struggled, but had been too
proud to utter a word.

" Give mo a hold of your oar," said Ladford, to one of
the men opposite; and, g<!tting hold of one, he held it
while they drew the boats nearly tog«*th(!r again, with the
floating man between them. Croonan had soon hold of
the gunwale over which he had been dragged into the
8(;a, and, being released from the restraining hold, was
presently on board.

As William Ladford let go the oar, he fell back with a
groan, for the men at the other end had given him a
fierce thrust.

" That bloody old smuggler '11 hear of this again," said
some of the rival crew ; but, generally, in Newfoundland,
vengeance, if sought, is not wreaked very ferociously. It
is not likely to be so in this case; but it sometimes is.

' 1 1!:',

mW- i •

iiif ij

WHAT FATKEK DEIJKKK WAS TOLD, ETC. 397

CHAPTER XLIII.

WUAT FATHER DEHKKK WAS TOLD, AND VUIL.T

HE DID.

jf^\ LL Conception-Bay (that is, the people of it,)
^^^^ was restless and excited on the morning after the
W^V occurrences of the ni^lit just descrihed, and had
as much to talk of, as if it had been raining hail or mete-
oric stones. Indeed, many of its people had been sleep-
less.

It was about five o'clock, that those of the Peterport
men who had been more immediately concerned in what
was done on land, were coming home ; but tliere were
vastly more with tlusm tiian had been with them during
the former hours of the night. Jesse Hill was one of
the objects of chief interest, if not the chief (for the con-
stable was left behind) ; and Isaac Maffen shone with
scarcely lesser lustre, but moved faithfully in his orbit,
notwithstanding the eccentric attractions that beset him.
Jesse commented upon events, and Isaac assented.
Soon Zebedee's crew drew e)'es and ears and tongues.
The tide of men swelled with added numbers, of both
sexes, as it went on ; but, about Franks' Cove, spread
itself, in all directions, and there remained, an excited
and heaving mass of life throughout that part of the
harbor.

li!.'

398

THE NEW PRIEST.

At some distance behind the returning population,
Father Debree walked thoughtfully. He looked weary
with night-watching, or unwell. His figure was less erect
and firm than formerly, and his step less strong. As he
came to the spot, where, a few weeks before, he had
stood to gaze upon the scenery of the place to which ho
had come, to labor and live in it, he paused unconsciously ;
and at the same instant a hasty step approached, and a
voice addressed him. He was a moment in recovering
himself, as he looked into the beautiful face that had so
suddenly shown itself. The words spoken were as abrupt
as the apparition ; but they at once fixed his attention.

" You're Father Debree ? — Pardon me ; I must speak
to you : I'm a friend of Mrs. Barre's, and I know you're
in some way related to her. She needs help, sadly, but
will never ask it. Some villain has slandered her char-
acter; and I think you may be the fittest person to do
justice to her.'*

The deep emotion that possessed the Priest, as he
listened to this hurried address, seemed, from the work-
ings of his features, to go through many changes ; and,
among the changes or expression, — surprise, at the last
words, was very evident amid the evident pain and almost
agony of his look.

Miss Dare hurriedly explained : —

" It has come from some lloman Catholic ; and a priest
who knows her, can best put down the lie. I think the
Freneys know where it came from."

Father Debree put his hand to his brow, and stood
Btill.

'• Won't you see her ? — She's had no rest, all night."

If Father Debree had looked at the speaker, he might
have thought that she, too, had not rested.

WHAT FATHER DEBREE WAS TOLD, ETC. 399

" Do you know who did it ? " he asked, aflei struggling
for the mastery of his feelings.

" No, I can fancy ; and I think it's one that has done
her some worse wrong before."

As quickly as light flashes, he turned his straining eyes
upon her, and seemed to read her thought at once.

" Poor, noble woman ! — To be slandered, after all ! "
said he ; and his lip quivered, his voice was choked, and
tears swam in his eyes. " She shall be righted, if I can
do it ! — Yes — Yes — I must see her, one moment. Can I
see her, for a moment ? — only a moment ! "

It was scarce day ; and yet Miss Dare seemed to have
no more thousrht of time than himself : she said : —

« Oh, Yes ! Do ! Do ! " and led him, hurriedly, to the
house.

He waited at the door.

When Mrs. Barre came down stairs, wan, thin, and
careworn, with scarce strength to walk, she evidently had
not been prepared to meet him.

" Walter ! " she almost shrieked, as she sank down.
" Have you come to me, of your own accord ? "

It was not possible for her to speak more.

" Help ! " cried the Priest ; and as Miss Dare came,
he drew near, also, and laid his hand upon her fore-
head.

It seemed as if the very touch revived her ; for she
looked up.

" Oh, Walter ! is it you ? " she said again : " how pale
you are ! "

She took his hand in both hers ; but he gently with-
drew it.

" No, Helen," he said ; " it is not right."

"Oh! what is right," she cried, "if that is not? but

■

i. if

]¥. !■

I i

400

THE NEW PRIEST.

Oh ! thank you for calling me by my own name again ;-—
once more ! "

Miss Dare turned away, while holding Mrs. Barre in
her arms, and sobbed convulsively, at the unutterable
pathos and the patience of her voice.

The Priest spoke : —

" Who has wronged you ? " said he. " Who has dared
to utter a breath against you ? Do not fear to speak
before this young lady ; for she told me. Is it Father
Crampton ?— Tell me ! "

" No ; never mind it : I have borne a worse thing.
Let it alone, — unless you please simply to contradict the
cruel falsehood."

" But I implore you, Helen ! — I do not speak as a
priest — "

" I cannot tell ; I do not know."

" But you know another thing, at least I pray you,
as a brother, not as a priest, — was it Crampton that you
meant, the other night, in what you told me of the con-
fessional ? "

" That is not the wrong that I am suffering. That, I
vindicated as a woman : I cannot meet this."

" I do not ask for vengeance-sake ; — God forbid ! — but
to do right. You will not let me wrong him. Say ' No,'
if it was not he ; will you ? "

"No. I say 'Yes;' it was he. I may as well say
truth plainly, as leave it to be inferred."

" Thank you ! " he said ; and, after hesitating, turned
and added : —

" If it be any thing, — if it can be any thing, — be sure
that I honor you : I reverence you, — blessed woman ! "

He was gone, instantly.

Father Debree did not pause any where along the

s again ;—

WHAT FATHER DEBRKE WAS TOLD, ETC. 401

road ; no gatherings of men, no sights or sounds, diverted
or delayed him, until he reached the Widow Freney's
house, and flung the door wide open. No one was there.
He walked all round the house, and all about the cove ;
no one was to be seen. He turned towards the hill again ;
and, as he turned, Mrs. Freney was just coming from the
gorge. He strode up to her.

" Who told this lie ? " he asked, as soon as she could
hear him.

" Father Debree ? " she asked, astonished and alarmed.

" Who told this lie of Mrs. Barre ? " he repeated.

" Is it a lie, Father Debree ? " said she. " I'm sure it
must be, your reverence."

" Who told you ? " he asked again.

" Indeed, it was the constable, Froyne, told me, Father
Debree ; but I wouldn't wish him any harm : sure, he
had good reason — **

" It's a LIE, woman ! And you took it up, and be-
lieved it, directly, against a friend and benefactor, like
that lady ! Do you think that is what the true religion
teaches ? "

His manner frightened Mrs. Freney still more.

" It's one o' the clargy told him," she said.

" Whoever told it, it's a lie ! There's not a purer
woman, — or saint, — living, — if she is not one of us. She
never did, or thought, or understood, any thing that was
not good, in her life ! I desire you'll go from one end of
the harbor to the other, and say so, and you may undo
something of what you're helped to do."

So saying, he left her, and walked, hurriedly, out of
the cove.

Somewhere in his way, he heard himself saluted. It

was by Mr. Wellon, who asked the favor of a few words

with him.

i'-A

, t)

I:' '' ' i

; I

402

THE NEW PRIEST.

"A renort has been circulated among the Roman

Catholics of this — "

" It's an abominable lie ! " said Father Debree, inter-
rupting. — " I have contradicted it. I am going to right
it. — Excuse me."

And he strode on. The Parson did not seek to stay

him.

THE TWO I'KIESTS AND A THIRD.

4or,

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE TWO PRIESTS AND A THIRD.

FATHER TERENCE liad not recovered from
the disturbance of tlie night, before Father De-
bree entered, hot, and dusty, and agitated, and
occupied all his attention.

The young priest wiped his brow, and walked, once or
twice, across the room ; until, at the invitation to sit down,
he turned round, and stood. He spoke hurriedly : —

" You remember v. hat passed between Father Cramp-
ton and myself, the other day, Father Terence ? "

" Indeed," answered the peace-loving old priest, " I
don't bother my mind much with past things."

" But those were no trifles to be forgotten in a

moment ; — do you remember his accusations and his
worse insinuations against me ? "

" I don't remember anny thing against you, brother,"
said Father Terence, kindly.

" Let me remind you, if you please : he spoke of Mrs.
Barre, and of my ' secret intercourse with her ; ' and
what ' the world might say ; ' and then claimed that
' though he might be accused of over-zeal for the Church,
there was no charge, of any other sort, against his moral
character. Do you remember, Father Terence ? "

It.

404

THE NEW PRIEST.

11*;:'

m:n

■■ Ml

.:.! 1 '\i

mr in

H" i(

is:

" I didn't give much heed to him ; but I suppose he
said it."

" And would you believe that that very man had once
sought — I loathe to speak it ! — to drag her from her
strong, sure virtue ? and in the Confessional ? and that he
has since defamed her, and sought to destroy her character
among men, thit never was else tiian lovely, as he had
sought to blot her name out of the Book of Heaven ? —
Would you believe that ? "

" Indeed I would be sorry to believe it of him, or of
anny priest ; but it doesn't seem the fair thing that ye
shouldn't have told him to his face, if ye'U say it behind
his back ; — he's in St. John's, tlie day," said the open-
hearted Father Terence.

" Very true. Father Terence, very true ; but I didn't
know it until to-day."

" But d'ye think is it good, brother, to be hunting up
things against him, even if they're true, itself, and even
if he wronged ye, when he's got to answer lor them,
surely, soon or late ? "

" I haven't searched for them, Father Terence ; they
came to me without seeking ; without wishing ; — and yet,
considering, not his wrong to me, but what she has been
to me, what I still owe to her, and must always owe to
her, what she deserves, for her noble self, and what she
might have expected of the tender sympathy of him as a
minister of God, and, especially, one knowing, as he
knows, her former happy life, and her sad, lonely lot, to-
day, — and considering, that to all her bitter loss and heavy
trial, this had been added, that vile words or innuendoes
against her had been spoken — and by that priest of
God — in the ears of those to whom her voice had sounded
as that of the very Angel of Mercy, — if then, while I

.tf;|.^>.-7

THE TWO PRIESTS AND A THIRD.

405

had steeled myself against her, according to my duty, (as
God knows I have done, truly,) while I have never given
way, before her, even to a word, (as God knows is true,
though T confess my heart has broken, — broken, in
secret,) if I had, to do her right, striven to turn the
earth, or drain the sea, would it have been too much ? "

During this passionate speech, Father Terence, several
times, caught his breath, and had much to do to control
the quivering muscles of his face. He had recourse to
his pipe, and made no answer.

" Would it have been wrong ? " the younger priest
asked again.

" But couldn't ye do her right and let him go ? Sure,
I'd stand by ye, too."

" I know you would, good Father Terence ; — but why
' let him go'^^ If you mean ' dimitte eum, — forgive and
suffer him, though he have wronged you, or have meant
you ill,' — by all means ! I cannot, as a sinner, look for
mercy or forgiveness, if I show it not ; — but ' let him go,
if it be to persist in this wrong to her, to do new wrong to
her, or others ; ' let him go ' to make his character and au-
thority a means of sin and ruin ; ' let him go ' to betray
some thoughtless wife, or simple child, to sin, and death,
and hell ; ' let him go ' to plead, in God's name, for the
Devil, "

" That's hard speaking," said his hearer.

" It is hard speaking ; how else should I speak ? "

" But how will ye stop him ? " asked Father O'Toole,
holding his dead pipe in hand, " if it was so."

" He should be forbidden the exercise of his office, and
if he do not repent, it should be torn from him ! "

The old priest asked gently —

" But what are i/on, to take God's judgments that way ?"

40G

THE NEW PRIEST.

mM/ ^

" A priest, that feel my own unwortliiness, but seek to
feel the awfulness of the priest's office, and the worth and
woe of souls that I am sworn to care for ; but is this God's
judgment, except as all things are God's ? Have men
no part in it, and no responsibility ? Are they not to act
for Him ? "

" Ay, but you can't do anny thing to Crampton ; you've
no power over him ; you can't unpriest him."

" No : but there are those wlio can ! Let him be
brought to the tribunal, and let the truth be proved there,
and let the bishop deal with him."

Father Terence shook his liead.

" No, no ; ye know, yerself, it's never done, — it can't
be done," said he ; " 'twould be scandal."

* " It can't be done, Father Terence ! — but there's some
way of doing it ? "

" No, there's no way ; they that's over him must see
to it."

" I wish them to see (u it ; but they must know it, first."

" There's some that know all about him, then ; doesn't
the man confess ? " asked Father Terence, trying if tlicre
were life in his pipe.

Father Debree gazed before him, as if a door had been
opened ; he looked forward, silently, and then spoke,
without moving his eyes : —

" And he walks free ! and exercises his priest's

office freely ! "

" But maybe he's been put on one side," said Father
O'Toole ; — " I heard it said. I think, he's been in high
places ; but he's put back, a oit, someway."

" But forbidden to deal with souls ? — No ! he has a
faculty, to confess priests and every one ; and he has the
whole charge of these nuns at the next door."

!^ ■ I

THE TWO PRIESTS AND A THIRD.

407

The elder priest moved uneasily ; perhaps he thought
of his own nc«flect.

" Indeed, that's true," he said.

"And can nothing be done?"

" You can't do any thing."

" But T could try."

" No ; ye'd ruin yerself, and do no good either. No,
no, man ; leave it alone."

" How can I, knowing what I do, if I have any care
for truth, or God, or man ? "

" It'll be right, one day "

" But in the mean time, how many wrongs ! — How many

ruins ! — How many wrecks I Is there no help for it ?

Let me make complaint, and if nothing comes of it, at
least leave the burden of blame, openly and fairly, where
it belongs."

" What's it ye mean ? "

" Go to the bishop and complain of this man, and un-
dertake to prove my charges."

" Now, brother, take my advice," said the old priest,
" and meddle you not with it ; it'll be the ruin of ye,
totally, an' ye'll never do anny good with it. Do you
your duty, an' leave him alone."

Father Debree turned and paced the room again.

" Nothing can be done ! " he exclaimed, coming again,
and standing as before.

" Sit ye down ! Sit ye down, man ! " said Father
Terence—" Will ye not ? "

Father Debree still stood, and said : —

" Nothing can be done ! Then I must only confront

this man, himself, and show him that his guilt is known,
and bring it home to his conscience."

" An' do ye think will he heed what ye say to him ?

m::h

nwr

Mr'; I

't:

■V ■ a

mki

li.'^'i

Uky,

408

THE NEW PRIEST.

No, no ; Crampton is a deep, hard man ; he'll never heed
what ye say to him. Don't meddle with him, is best. —
I'm sure of it."

"I've no fear of him. "What I knew of Crampton
years ago, in another country, but shut my eyes to, — what
I know of him now, — make him what the world would
call a villain ; and shall he, in the Church, find an im-
punity that, in the world, would never be allowed him ?
Nay, shall new fields be opened to him to ravage, and
new opportunities for mischief given him? If Cramp-
ton "

The door opened and Father Nicholas entered, with a
flash in his eye and a sneer at his lip.

— " Were now present," he said, taking up the un-
finished sentence, " would you dare to say to him what-
ever vou have said of him in his absence, loud enoujrh
for me to hear outside the house ? "

" I thought ye were in St. John's," exclaimed Father
Tcence, astonished at the suddenness of the apparition.

"And so thinking me at a safe distance, you could ven-
ture to make me the subject of your censure, and enter-
tain yourself with this gentleman's practice in invective;"
said Father Nicholas, giving himself for the moment a
license of speech very unusual with him.

During this address, delivered very deliberately and
distinctly. Father Terence held a book open, (it happened
to be upside down,) and his hand trembled. After
the last word he turned full upon the speaker, and
said, —

" I'm not sure that I understood ye altogether ; but let
me tell ye that I'm no backbiter, nor I'm no brawler; but
it's not for fear of anny man, nor ever was ; " (here the
old gentleman rose gradually from his chair,) " and that

,»,■)<■ 1

THE TWO PRIKSTS AND A THIRD.

409

if ye exp(!('t to speak liero, sir, I sliall expect ye'll speak
."Ivilly. I lliink y'aro not over inc."

Fallier Nicholas instantly corrected himself: —

" I humbly ask your pardon, reverend father," said he,
" I was wrong ; but I hope that the hearing of my own
name so freely used, will be an excuse for my intrusion ?"

" Y'are quite free to come in, and it maybe as well
y'are come," said P'ather Terence, seating himself again.
"Will ye sit down, sir?"

" Thank you, sir, I see that I'm not very welcome
liere, and 1 shall prefer being upon a little ceremony, if
you'll permit me."

" May I have leave to answer his question. Father
Terence ? " asked the priest from Peterport, with a pale
cheek, and a pale, steady flame in his eye.

"If ye must talk, I'll give my advice, if ye'll take it off
me ; just begin at a new place," said the elder, with an
intuitive wisdom that was quite deep, if it might avail.
The other, turning to Father Nicholas, said, —

"It's best to begin at the very thing I have to say. I
wish to ask you whether you have said or insinuated any
thing against the pure and noble character of that lady,
who was mentioned here by you the other day."

"Another criminal examination, without the ceremony
and expense of judicial commissions or constables ! As
I am little in the habit of speaking of ladies, here or else-
where, I suppose I know whom you mean ; but at the
same time I will thank you to be explicit, and I propose
going through with you to-day."

" I mean Mrs. Barre."

" Have you any special claims to call me to account,
if I had said any thing against her ? I was not aware of
any such relation between you and Mrs. Barre at this

.* ^

»'!

t 'i

■i

ily>

410

TlIK NF.W PRIKST.

sli.'f

= ■■'■■ 'i

t f

moment, or butweon you and niyself, as would war-
rant It."

" Yt's, I htwo. Tho peculiar position in whieh she
stands to me, I have no occasion to speak of. If she l)e
wron<:^ed and cannot rij;lit herself, sh«^ lias a chiim on any
Christiiin man and gentleman of honor, and first of all on
me. That involves a relation between me and any one
who wrongs her, and theretbre to you, tliough you be an
old(!r priest than I."

"Tiiere seems a trifling oversight there; the Church
and her discipline are ovcM'looked apparently, — or blown
away ; the existence of a tribunal of penitence seems to
be forgotten ; but let it go for the present. Take your
own way, by all means, only come out with all you've
got. What do you mean ? "

" I mean i)recisely what I say, and I may say some-
thing more. That you insulted her, and — if wickedness
could have approached her, as it cannot, — that you would
have sought her ruin, at the very moment when you
were claiming to know her pure, innocent thoughts, to
sit in judgment on them, I am sure beyond any question,
and that you have just tried to stain her reputation,
though I have not the same absolute p/oof, yet I cannot
doubt."

A sort of color (as much perhaps as his complexion
was capable of ) came into Father Nicholas's face.

" You're getting along rather faster than the slow pace
of common justice too. You're perfectly sure of my guilt
in the one case, and can't have a doubt of it in the other,
and yet I don't remember that you have ever even hinted
the thing to me, who am the only person capable of testi-
fying to the contrary."

" I never had the proof or even knew the fact until
to-day."

'.^: «■;:

TIIK TWO TRIKSTS AND A THIRD.

411

Fatlicr Niclioliis !)oro liis j)art liko one who had a
satisfju'tion in tlu^ practice of fence; but he arjjjucd in a
sliglitinj]^ and snecrln^jf way.

" For a like reason I iiave ha<l no oliance, you may
rememi)er, to clear or defend myself, and yet you believe
in a moment a;j;ainst me. Has a brotlier-j>riest no claims?
A priest's reputation is said to be as tender as a woman's,
and his ri<,dits are certainly as <Tood. Tlu're are other
places and occasions for considerinfjf the propriety and
safety of an intercourse against which Father Terence
cautioned you ; but certainly one would think that you
might kTiow the propriety of rejeetinf; or receiving cau-
tiously the suggestions of a woman's res(?ntment."

" It was no conviction or suspicion of a moment, Mr.
Crampton ! I had sonu; light upon your character years
ago. Do you think I have forgotten Clara Wentley and
the fate of Ur. Wentley of Ross Park ? "

It would be hard to describe the change that passed
upon Father Nicholas's fac(!. Whether he became redder
or more pale, or both, whether he quailed for an instant,
or shook with instant indignation, it would have been
hard to say from his looks only.

He answered without violence, —

— "And still another charge ! What now ? "

" No. That is not the business that I came about. I
mentioned it only casually by way of illustration ; but it
was something that wanted the name only of a double
murder : of a poor father by a sudden blow, and of a
daughter by a slow, deadly poison ! "

Father Terence looked from one to the other in amaze-
ment, and gave vent to it in words : —

" Is Debree mad ? or what sort of rann are ye, Cramp-
ton? or what does this mean at all? I never knew the

"S'Jl

,ur>tNT

"»'

1
> 1

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) f f >. >

li f"

'I! m

\' '11

I ]>

412

THE NEW PRIEST.

like, and I'm a priest thirty or forty years. Murder!
and this sin and that sin ! I think I'll just leave the place
t'ye, an' I'll go an' feed my ducks and chickens, or I'll
look in the chapel a bit."

" Father Terence I beg you to be here ; I'm saying
only what I can prove, I pray you not to go away," said
the Priest from Peterport.

"And I hope you'll stay, reverend father," said the
other priest ; " we shall be able to answer all three of
your questions better by and by, if we give Mr. Debree
time and opportunity. — I beg you'll go on, sir ; I'll keep
my answer till I've heard all. Does any other crime, —
misdemeanor, or felony, — occur to you at this moment, to
charge me with ? or will you gratify me with the partic-
ulars and the proof of this last little one, ^incidentally
mentioned ? ' "

" Of course. The particulars are the insinuating your-
self, (concealing the fact of your being a Roman Catholic
and a priest,) into the love of an innocent girl, whose
heart dried slowly up when she found you out, and killing
the father by the discovery of your treachery, and his
child's endless, hopeless wretchedness ! — then declaring
that you had only sought her for a heavenly bridegroom.
The evidence is in all or any one of a hundred people in
Jamaica, pri\y to all the circumstances, and myself among
them."

"Ah ! now we're coming to something ; the privity of
a hundred persons to a thing of this kind, all absent and
nameless, is an inconvenient generalization ; but here is
a witness known and present. Allow me the cross-exam-
ination of him, as my own counsel, borrowing a little
from my last night's experience. You say you knew
this J how long ago was it ? "

THE TWO PRIESTS AND A THIRD.

413

ity of
nt and
lere is
exam-
little
knew

"A little more than two years, and not likely to be for-
gotten in a lifetime."

"Are you sure of the facts ? "

" Yes ; you know very well my opportunities of infor-
mation."

"And now, my friend, you who charge me with all
this two years ago, have you ever told me what you
thought and believed ? or have you told any one else ? "

" No. I confess that I have buried it in my breast ! "

" You did not, therefore, in all these two years think
of it as you speak of it now ? "

" I would not allow myself to judge of it, until a new
light was thrown upon it to-day ; everybody else saw it
so before."

" Let us go along surely, sir, if you please, and keep
different things separate ; you can't answer for other
people ; but for yourself you say that you did not see
these facts or circumstances two years ago, in the light in
which you see them now. Do you mean to say that if
you had seen me strike a blow, or heard me utter a sen-
tence of blasphen^y or ribaldry two years ago, you would
not have understood and judged it on the spot ? I think
you're intelligent enough to understand, and of your
sharpness and severity of judgment; I think we've had
some evidence lately. That you have been two years of
a different opinion, shows that you now judge falsely. If
you had been two years in making up your opinion, it
would show that the case was a pretty difficult one to
determine."

" I will take the blame of forming my judgment slowly
and reluctantly, or even of beiug for two years wrong, in
judging favorably. What I know t(»-day compels me to
understand what I would not or did not two years ago.

•IM:

l.'V

, , (

414

THE NEW PRIEST.

Is it not every thoughtful and observing man's expe-
rience ? "

" Now, then, for your terrific apocalypse of to-day ; for
though the order of time is otherwise, yet here seems to
be the hinge of all your accusation. What's this about
Mrs. Barre ? That I tempted her ia confession ? To
what?"

" Not ' tempted her ; ' but, what is a very different
thing as regards her, though the same in you, sought to
tempt her to forsake her virtue. Is that plain enough ? "

" I'll be satisfied, for the present. Time, place, and
circumstance are to be fixed with reasonable precision ;
how long ago was tliis ? and in what place ? and ."

"Mr. Crampton, I charge you with wicked advances
made to my — to Mrs. Barre, in confession ; and I rest
the charge upon the word of a woman, whom no tongue
but that same one that poisoned holy things, ever moved
against ; and I charge you with slandering her in the
community in v/hich she is now living ; and I call upon
you to retract any charges or insinuations that you have
made, and to correct them."

If guilt makes most men cowardly, that evidence of
guilt did not appear in this case. The man to whom
these words had just been spoken, slowly and with a most
determined look and step came fci'ward, and, passing be-
tween the spaaker and Father Terence, turned round
and stood near the fire-place, where he could face the
latter as well as the former. Then, pale to his very lips,
he said, in an even voice, —

" Our beia.g priests forbids our fighting ; — you seem to
think bandying abusive "words the next best thing ; but
have a care, sir ! — even a priest may brush an insect into
nothingness, or trample with his foot an adder."

\^.y'

THE TWO PRIESTS AND A TfflRD.

415

expe-

y; for

ims to

about

? To

ifferent
ught to
)ugh ? "
,ce, and
icision ;

•
dvances
1 I rest

tongue
' moved
' in the
all upon

ou have

ence of
o whom
li a most
ksing he-
ld round
lf:ice the
[ery lips,

iseem to

mg ;

hut

Isect into

Father Ignatius drew himself up, and, folding his arms,
said : —

" Add to your character of profligate priest and slan-
derer that of bully, or bravo, will you ? and to the sin of
assaihng innoeeuce and honor add that of assaulting one
who speaks in their defence ! "

Father Terence had sat uneasily for some time, and
now he rose.

" In the name of God," said he, " I bid ye stop this.
I'm older than ye both, and I say it's sin for anny one to
go on this way, let alone consecrated priests." (The
homely old gentleman looked noble as he stood to keep
God's peace.) " And man," he continued, turning to Fa-
ther Nicholas, " what y'ave done before, I don't know ;
but if ye have spoken against this lady, why d'ye not go
an' make it right ? 'Sure, if she was your enemy itself,
it's not your place to do it."

" She never did him any worse wrong than shaming
or rebuking him to himself, Father Terence ; she did
not even complain of him for his abuse of his sacred
office."

" It would have been rather late to complain of injured
or insulted virtue some years afterward, as it must have
been ; except that the moral sense of the family seems to
be deliberate in its motions. She was wiser than her cham-
pion, too, who does not know that my character of priest
will stand me in some stead with others ; and that in a
case v/^here, of necessity, there can be but two parties, it
would be generally taken for granted that the representa-
tions of one of them may be very mistaken or very false,
to say nothing farther ; and who forgets that the world
has eyes in its head, and a tongue in its mouth, and can
form its own judgment of his moral pretensions, with this

^t(^

TiiK NKW ruiKsr.

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'Ka^^

|j;|:

^g;^;; ,, .: } :;

Iti

Kf 'ii

^^Ul V 'I* 11

^H^B

Hfeiw^

Imlv (>^''» ' p»M'nlii\ilv rrlfilcd lo him.') n( Iiis tiill, iind
lnn\iMi> \\\y hm pooh ih lio p,o(si (o ln^ ptwi."

"I sIimII «io1 otHor iiilo tnu r<Mn t'lMMlioH upon llml
poii\l." M!\iil I'jidiiM- I>ol>i('(>. "I 'hK wlit'llior von will
Ivv lo do llto lilllo Mixl iMnh jii'^liri' in voiif powoi- lo {\\\h
\i\\\\ . wlio l\n^ oHoMjili lo l»(>!U' ol' Moiiow. willioiil llio ml-
(lilion (>r UMtloMOiN I'd sslmnio " "

"({i\ino ('orlirn'MlO'J of cliMiMclor iiihI loMlimoiiinh lo
rospoi'iMMo lioroiit'M i-t ool tpiilt* in \\\\ wmv : miil lo rrriill
s\)\\\ »o(vM('l. or lo coMl'Milicl. M(M'oi(liM»i 1(» vonr rnncy,
\\\\i\\ I u\:\\ or \\\:\\ nol liiixo ^w'wl mIioiiI llii^ or lliiil por-
8on, in sonioll(i»i«> loo mnoli lo M-iK ol" n<o. Thjil n poiMltn,
HihiMlotl !i^ iho owo voM inrnlion is. should MiilVor l»»r her
unhMppv Mpo>^l!nv. i^ lo ho oxpoolod. il isi m piul ol hor
lot, i\nd i^ :i rnllihuonl ol iho prophoov 'Stifwr tfttctn
rih'9iii'n'f, roui<roi onu.' Sho will ho jvionnd tnidt'r ihiil
Hlono il will (MM -h hor inli> iho ojnih."

*' Yon will nol *\o nnv ihinji? ^ on will !\ol do sin»plo
jnslit'o lo how Mild spoidv siniplo Irnlh ol' hoi- F And do
von «l;\ro lo ImIK ol' iho Ihllihnonl ol' piophoov. whon von
!»n* pnllinti onl \onr hMnd lo lopplo ihi-» slono ovoi\ mm
.liidjisj inijvhl h.-no spok<M». Ol- sh Iho Mi<i,li i*rio4| ol' ihv'
.Town niijihl \\;\\o spoKon. ol' wh,'»l lh<\v did lo iho l^>-
do(Mnor. h(>o;ui^o llo itn»o»'oolly sniVotod m1 Ihoir hnndM,
:\c^^>l^linu• io iho h'Mlhoi'i will P I'hon mmj inn-il honr
vour hnt'd(M\ ; Ml Mnv li^k ol ocnsnro oi* Mnspioion. I will
«>ponly oonliMdiiM \on in iho world. MOtJ donoinu'o yon in
iho rhnroh ! "

" Now. ihon. \]\o WMi" i^i Mh'^olnloly doi'lMi'od." MMid I''m-
thor NioholM-^. stnilitij^ .M^Min ; " Mnd who do yon ihiidv
>vill ho iho siMincM' \\\ il ? \V(» Iimvo no plMoo '\\\ iho world,
oxvv^pl !»s b«donsi»nii' <<> <lu> Sooio — iho ("hnioh: Mnd how
uuirh, think yon. \o\\ wonld weigh MjvMinMl mo in Iho

ill, iiihI

Ml (l)lll

Oil will

to lliisi

llio lul-

liiil'j lo

rrriill
• rmiry,

llMl )M'I-
jMMM(»ll,

lor li(M-

1 t»r Iht
<)• ifui'in

lIlM- (lull

i» Miiiipl"'

Ami <lo

Immi v«»ii

ovtM-, n»

( Ol' (l»'.'

Ilio Ke-

litiiiils,

III i| Im'mt

M. I will

> von in

:ii(

I l-M-

lliiiilv

W woi

md l\«nv
ill (ho

TIIK I WO nillSTH ANIJ A I IMIlh.

117

riiilirli. wlil(>li j/lvo'4 yon your idnrn in iIim world? [
(liinK I miiy Miiy. willionl iinniodnnln viinily, tlml I mn
worlli Hoinollnn^ nioro lo ||, lloin yon, iind lliiit (Im> inlrrn
of (lie ('linirli would HO df'InniiiM'. *

Indi'od, llirn. I don'l I

know whiil wny y iiio Mf» nnn li
ItoK.'r lliiMi liini. I Know (Iml. nOrr m l.il. Iio'm lil<(< |

Im» liipJHM- in llip (linu'li |||

inn «<illirr yon or in«<

lli^lio|» lold incmdC lliiil Im'M jnrtil |i(uIm ; ntid I lliink
Iio'm Olio lliin^r yriMidr Iim sn'l ; iind llinr^ Jiml. llio |diiin
lovo (or wIiiiI'm (rno nnd rinlii," Hiiid I'^iilln-r 'ri'iriico.
" Mo I

oiiiM (I. hImIii liko M woniH

'I'lio ollior pricMl MiHwi'rt'd :•-

•' I Hiiy nollniifr nl" lii^ |t!iilM; Itnl il'^ llml vrry ,m«nli-
Hionliilily oC lii-i llml iiimKcm liiin iiiiMrrvirrnldo ; lor llin
niMii ol' Mcronnl in llio oni» wlio IiiKom rirrmnsluncrs hm lin

iUuU llit'iii. Mild iiMOM Ihoni ii'< llioy iiro, nnd

^<ioM on, willi-

onl HilliiifT down lo I'll! liiM liniror in liiM «>yo, lor s«mim>-
fliinn lio lltinkM isi wron^r. I ihink yon liiid Ixllrr nol,
nioddlo wilh iiio, |M«ilin|»M," ho ndded, lnrnin;T |o l-'allicr
Doliroo. willi n sniilo.

" ITm oiiMy HO(«n, llio diiy, llml y'nrr n. Iinrd niiin, Vn-
llior ('•!iiii|tlon." snid l''iillior 'rncin'o; " nn' I «|on'l sny
lor woiN(>: Itnl il' yo inniti mniy niiscliirC lo /lim, yo
iiiiimI mind iIimI Tin wilii liini ; find, il' I'm nol niniMo
nnd (piii'K, yo'll Iind mo llml. Iiouvy llml I'll nol, Im> oiiMy
liOod onl ol' y<"r w.'iy."

'Plio Hiroiiir lil'o iind oxciloinrnl of llio scono luid not
Id) lli(> old rri(*Ml nnloncliod. l<'n,llior I )tlnr(' s.-iid : -

" l''or mysiir. |(>| liim do wliiil lii< will; nnd in llio
OMiiso of Iho widow, (iod is n pnily."

"ScMrc(>ly w willow, I should Ihink," sjiid l^'ulhcr Nicli-
oliis, moving lo no.

" Coiii<>, man," said IIiiMild IVriesI, lo Kalhor Dcbrci^,

I V"--

-(,

■' Vi

V.i
til

' )

I f

<' 1 J

if t'

418

THE NEW PRIEST.

" if y'are through, as I think y'are, come, and let's walk
through the grounds a bit."

As they walked silently, the younger priest abruptly
turned to his kindly companion and said : —

" I must be your deacon to-morrow. Father Terence ; I
can't say mass, up there."

" D'ye feel that bad ? Ye mustn't take on that way,
man," answered the old Priest.

" I really can't do it ; there are more things than one
upon my mind," answered Father Debree.

" Ye shall just stay and help me, then," said the elder ;
" and let Crampton go, if he likes."

ii'«

QUITE ANOTHER SCENE.

419

CHAPTER XLV.

QUITE ANOTHER SCENE.

HINGS strange and ill-matched crowd each
other ; the interview of the priests was fol-
lowed by another, very unlike.

After the examination, Mr. Bangs had lingered, and
seemed loth to go ; and Father Terence invited him to
pass the night where he was. This, however, he de-
clined. Yet he staid. At last, he said " he guessed
he'd look in a spell to-morrow," and departed.

" Didn't want to go 'thout takin' leave. Father O'Toole,"
he said, as he presented himself betimes on the next day.

"An' where's this y'are going, then?" inquired the
Priest, surprised at this notice of departure. (Father
Terence was very grave.)

" Wall, I guess I'll be goin' over here to Peterport
agin, 'n' see what I can do for 'em," answered the Ameri-
can.

" An' what's the matter at Peterport ? "

" They want a little teachin', all round Noofunland,
'pon a good many things. They'd all be rubbed into
grease 'n a minute 'r two, 'n the States, 'f they wa'n't a
little spryer about it."

" An' what would rub them into grease, then ? "

" Why, every body 'd be tumblin' over 'em."

420

THE NEW PRIEST.

ii' i«

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N !!

" But don'i; they do their work well ? an' aren't they
good people ? " ".

" They are good people, and kind people, fact ; b't
they're pleggily 'm posed upon."

" It's the difference o' government, ye mean ; but it*s
not a bad government we have," said the Priest, who was
an Irishman of an old kind.

" Wa'n't speakin' o' that, 'xac'ly. I'll tell ye, Father
O'Toole, — I ain't a democrat, an' so I don't like slavery."

The Priest, who knew nothing of parties in America,
and, from the word democrat, understood one who was in
favor of democracy, might have been edified at this
avowal; but how a democrat should like slavery, and
what the whole thing had to do with Newfoundland, was
not clear.

" I mean I don't b'long t' the Democratic party, 's the'
call it, where they have t' learn t' blackguard, 'n' abuse
niggers, b'fore they c'n take the stump "

" Is it stumps they've to take, in Amerikya ? " asked
Father O'Toole, smiling. " Indeed, I think they must be
poor, then, mostly, for it's not manny o' them one man
would take."

" Why, there ain't a poor man 'n the whole concern,
'thout it's the Paddi pedygogues."

" Is it that bad a place for the schoolmasters, then ? I
often hard ' the schoolmaster was abroad ; ' an' maybe it's
too manny o' them's abroad."

" Let 'em come ; only educate 'n' 'nlighten 'em, I say."

"Are the people so larrn'd, the schoolmasters are not
ayqual to them ? That's a quare case : it's the masters
teach, mostly, I think," said Father Terence, who had
heard of strange countries ; but perhaps had never had a
chance at information from a native of one before. " And

!''i:

QUITE ANOTHER SCENE.

421

't they

ct; b't

but it's
ho was

Father
avery.'*
.merica,
was in
at this
sry, and
md, was

y, 's the*
n' abuse

" asked
must be
jne man

concern,

hen? I
laybe it's

, I say."
are not
masters
who had
er had a
"And

they've not the clergy, ayther, to be the soul an' centre
of it, an' take the lead ? "

" Guess there ain't such a system o' public schools 'n
the wide world ; why, ol' President John Quincy 's edu-
cated at 'em ; 'n' so was your bishop, there, Cheveroo, 't
was made a Card'nal, or what not, out 't Bordo, 'n France ;*
but 's I was sayin', when we got a talkin' 'bout common
schools, I guess folks 'n Noofundland might be 'bout's
good 'n' happy, 'n' a leetle mite better off. Why, there
were fishermen down 't Marblehead 'n' Gloucester, 'n*
all 'long there, b'fore ever Noofundland 's heard of, — *s
goin' to say, — 'n' ye don't ketch them a sett in' down 'n the
chimney-corner, t' keep the fire agoin' all winter, 'n' when
the' ain't out fishin' ; the' make shoes, the whole boodle
of 'em, jes' 's tight *s they c'n stretch. Merchants can't
make slaves of 'em 'n that country *s the' do here."

"An' how would the planters make shoes ? " asked the
Priest.

" I'll take hold 'n' learn *em, I guess," said the Ameri-
can.

" Do ye know how to make shoes, Mr. Bangs ? "

" Looked into it, some, *n I's a shaver ; b't 'bout that
mirycle. Father O'Toole," continued Mr. Bangs, " wanted
to say, I guess we better not say any thing 'bout it, f ' fear
the' may be a mistake."

" Well, if there's a mistake, we're both in the one box,"
said Father Terence, " an' if they laugh at you, they'll
laugh at me. We might just wait a bit, maybe, and see
what comes of it."

" Wall, I guess I wouldn't make much of it, 'f I's you ;
I heard o' somebody havin' my magic lantern, round "

" Is there magic in it, then ? Indeed I won't have anny
* Chevereux, Archbishop of Bordeaux, and cardinal.

'' >v

422

THE NEW PRIKST.

f m m-

thing to do with it, little or much. It's the devil does it,"
said the Priest.

" Wall, I wouldn't 'xac'ly go 'n' lay it t* the devil, either.
Don't s'pose ye ever saw one o' those lanterns ; 't's a
k'nd of a thing 't shows piechers on a wall. 'T mai/ ha'
ben that ; I only make the suggestion."

"But how would he show you and meself, Mr.
Bangs ? "

" Does 'dmit o' question ; b't he might have had 'em
painted "

At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and a
person entered with a low obeisance to Father Terence,
and a look of inquiry at Mr. Bangs.

" Good morning, Reverend Father," said he. " I learn
that something supernatural has occurred here during the
late painful proceedings; and that the Holy Queen of
Heaven has exhibited her power in the Church when
assailed by her enemies."

Father Terence looked rather awkwardly towards Mr.
Bangs, and then said, " It's the editor of the Catholic
paper, Mr. Bangs."

" I think I heard that name in the same connection,"
said the editor. " Hadn't this gentleman some hand in
it?"

" Indeed he was there ; but we're thinking there may
be some mistake."

" Well, Reverend Father, as you were both present, if
you'll be kind enough just to furnish me with the facts, as
they occurred, that is, after all, you know, the only way
of judging. If they sustain the opinion, there it is ; if
not, why, it falls."

" Indeed, that can do no harm, anny way ; will ye tell
him the facts, Mr. Bangs, if ye please ? "

l^UITE ANOTHER SCENE.

423

2S it,"

jither.
't's a
ay ha'

■, Mr.

id 'em

and a
erence,

I learn
•ing the
leen of
h when

rds Mr.

atholic

[ection,"
land m

re may

[sent, if
tiiets, as
ily way
is; if

Mr. Bangs said he " guessed they m't 's well hold on,
Tr a spell ; " but the editor was of opinion that the best
time to get at facts was imnKMliately after their occur-
rence, while the recollection was fresh, and before con-
fusions had arisen.

" Wall, if ye only want what 'curred, I'll give it t' ye,
's Father O'Toole says so." He then proceeded to detail
the facts, and the editor carefully made a note of them.
This being done, the literary gentleman read his sketch
of an intended article in his journal, which, beginning
with stating that " Protestantism was systematized unbe-
lief, and that the Divine Presence in the Church had never
left itself without miraculous witness," proceeded in an
elegant and glowing version of the " statement made by
an eye-witness, an intelligent American merchant, and
not yet a Catholic," and concluded with a loyal assurance
that " we (the editor) reserve our final and full judgment
until it has been pronounced upon by the authorities of
the Church."

" If you're not a Catholic after seeing that " said

the editor.

-" You ruther guess I never shall be ? Wall,-

" Now will you be so kind as to certify that you wit-
nessed this sight, Reverend Father Terence ? "

The A'orthy Priest was a great while about it, and
changed his expressions a good many times, but at last
produced the following : —

" I do hereby certify that ah the above was seen by

me.

tell

"'Guess I'd put on, 'not saying how 'twas done,' 'f I
was you, Father O'Toole," urged Mr. Bangs ; and so he
did.

The "American merchant " then certified also that " he

;«,: IP

i-'i

I II

ij (I if

If 'I *•

[■' 'I

421

TlIK NKW riMKsr.

liMpix'Pod to ho Idokinj; on, and saw tlio si^ht in tho
chapel ; liut should not like to say how it waM done."

Thf tMlitor thanked the Father and INIr. liangs, and
dej)iirte<l with his marvellous hu«l;x<-t'

lie had scarcely closed \\io- door, when a request eamo
to tlw; IJeverend Father Terence to allow the nuns to
watch and say tluur (h'votions belbre, thi; niiracuh)ua pic-
ture.

The door havin*^ closed apjain, Mr. lianpjs said, —

" 'Guess 1 in's' be -^oin', Father O'Toole : — I think tho
play's becfun."

" Ycr name '11 be famous from this out, I'm thinkin*,
Mr. Hangs," said the I'riest ; — " but what's this about the
lantern ? " he added, looking confused. — " When will ye
be coming for instruction, then?"

" Why, my mind 's got ruther d'atracted ; guess I wun't
go on 'th it jest now. Ye're welcome to those candles f'r
the ehap-il. Father O'Toole ; 'n* I'm thankful t' ye, I'm
sure. Wish you good-day ! "

So the American turned his back upon conversion.

Father O'Toole was really grieved. lie begged his
departing disciple " not to forget what he had learned,
however, and to say a good word for Catholics."

Mr. Bangs assured him " there was one of *em any
how, should always have his good word"; and shaking
hands heartily, went his way, holding the breast of his
coat with one hand and swinging the other.

The Priest called him back.

" I'm afraid," said he, " the worrld took too strong a
hold of ye. Take care it doesn't swallow ye."

" 'T'll have t' come b'hind me, I guess, an' take rae *n
I've got the cramp 'n my stomuch," said Mr. Bangs.

" Ye mind the widdah in the Gospel ? She was troubled

tho

\rrn. and

st canu^
lUinH to

QUITE ANOTIIKU SCKNE.

425

about tnjiny tliiuf;^*, an' 'twas but the ono piece of silver

was want 111";.

With lliis rather incorroct citation, but f^'ood religion,
tlu; kind I'riust dismissed the object of liis labors and
Bolieitude.

'■} ■ iS

linlc tho

thinkin',
ibout the
I will ye

s I wun't
iindles f'r
t' ye, I'm

sion.
orged his
learned.

'em any

shaking

ist of his

fii'l

strong a

e me 'n

igs.

troubled

!■ ij

42G

THE NEW PRIEST.

f^\:'

! « ;■

(,' , ,- t

I ; m

CHAPTER XLVI.

FATHER DEBREE's WALK FROM BAY-HARBOR.

lioHE Sunday and its occupations passed, at Bay-
■ Harbor. Father Dcbree was absent-minded, and
looked anxious ; and the old priest left hira much
to himself; only showing, when he might, some mark of
fatht.'ly kindness. On Monday the younger walked
towards Peterport, pale and worn.

Miss Dare, coming back from an early ride, drew up,
as she passed, to salute him ; but got no otb'jr answer
C >n by his lifted hat, and a sad look of abstraction. A
moment after, the sight and sound of tlie fair girl was
lost in hiiii as wholly as the sudden summer's brook is
taken into and lost sight of in the deep, dark-rolling
river ; if one might judge by the eye.

The pretty road, along which in other days he had
gone, observing, Father Debree was walking on, absorbed
in thought. The little beach, between the roadway and
the sea^ received its long line of rippling waves and gave
them back, in vain, for him. He turned away to the
sweet little valley, on the landward side, where a lone
tree or two, an uneven bank to the right hand, a winding
little plain, green grass, and that humming silence which
even here, so near this boach, can be felt, would draw the
glance and the foot, too, of one who loves fair things and

FATHER DEBREE'S WALK FilOM BAY-HARBOR. 427

rinding
which
ivv the

lirs and

stillness and is not hurried. This was the pretty place
of which lie had spoken in his first conversation with
Mr. Wellon, As if he sought the beauiy and the still-
ness, and yet, as if he saw and felt them not, he turned
aside and walked among them ; not like a man without a
purpose, but like one whose object was not tliere.

There stood a little knoll out from the bank at the
right of the narrow meadow, and at its foot and on its
side, grew a clump of bushes, behind which, on the inner
side, was a square-edged and flat-sided rock. On the
smooth sward, with his brow against the rock. Father
Debree was kneeling, where the bushes screened him
from the road.

Absorbed as he was, and separated from all other
things and beings, (unless in thought he called them up,)
almost as entirely as if he were within the earthen
nound, another separation was about him, not for a
moment but for life ; one that cut off from wife and
child and friend. Such a man, taken from his office and
its relations, was, at once, lonely ; alone, of friends, in all
the world. He might have enem>:.s enough. Indeed
let such an one be struggling with questions of faith, and
friends are gone. There is no sympathy among his
brother-priests or fellow-religionists for striving in the
spirit, wrestling through doubts and questions, bringing
them to proof of Holy Writ and human reason, in the
court of one's own conscience.

Father Terence had a kindly heart, beyond his creed :
what other, here ?

A touch of life upon his hand startled him. In such
a case how suddenly the roused body summons back the
mind to consciousness to counsel it.

He started from the earth, and it was a moment before

:li

I" I

l*'li

m •

ill

;

mI\J

428

THE NEW PRIEST.

m 'i

1 !i !

!i ^'

•' J

i 'I

I' *

15'il I'M >

' (,

he saw clearly, and then he saw not a reptile ; not a foul
beast ; not an enemy ; not the friendly Father Terence ;
but little Mary Barre.

At first he held the tiny hand that had been thrust up
into his, in silence, looking on the child, who, having
thus established a communication with him, stood partly
abashed and blushing, with her back towards him, and
her little foot sliding hither and thither upon the grass.
Her right hand held her apron gathered up, holding some
burden brought from her walk u[)on the beach or meadow.
A man may take a child into his confidence, when he
would shun the fellowship of men ; and so it is ordained
of God. A child can often bring more good to us ; for
what men want, when they are in perplexity or distress,
is to be brought back, without argument, to first prin-
ciples ; to simple thoughts and feelings.

At such times we look back toward our own happy
childhood, instinctively ; at such times, we welcome
children.

So Father Debree, the thoughtful and strong-thinking
man, stood with the pretty innocent, and, for a while,
looked on her silently ; but he groaned.

"Ah! child," said he, at length, "you've found
me?"

" Yes, I knew where you were," said she, " didn't you
want me to find you ? "

'' No ; not now, my little girl," he answered ; but he
did not send her away, and soon, with a long, deep sigh,
lifted her up and kissed her.

He did not seem to h.ive thought of the strangeness
of the child's being there, unless she were under some
one's care so far from home ; but now, as if it had just
occurred to him, he asked her, trying to use a gay tone

,i/!

t a foul
erence ;

rust up
having
i partly
lim, and
le grass.
n2 some
neadovv.
vhen he
)rdained
us ; for
distress,
rst prin-

n happy
welcome

thinking
a while,

found

idn't you

but he
icp sigh,

angeness
ler some
had just
gay tone

FATHER DEBREE'S WALK FROM BAY-HARBOR. 429

sayin
m it, —

2 it, but failing in the trial, for his voice broke

woman

handkerchief,

« Where is 1
time?"

The little girl did not, apparently, understand his
reference to their former meeting on the Backside, — per-
haps his memory had mistaken the color or the article of
dress ; but while she stood and said nothing, there ap-
peared suddenly from the other side of the thicket, a lady,
who answered the question, saying

" Her usual guardian wears black ; " in the softest
voice that could be ; and stood before him in deep widow's
mourning.

This time Father Debree started backward, and, as he
moved, left the child standing in the midst between
them, in anxious ?,5tonishment, but holding up her little
treasure.

'* Are you afraid of me, when we meet out of the Con-
fessional ? " the lady asked.

He stood upright and silent, looking upon her, sadly
rather than severely or even as one surprised ; but it
was only for a moment, and then with a hasty move-
ment, he turned his face away — it may have been to
gather strength.

" Is not the time come, yet ? " she said, in a voice that
seemed to say that Time was coming and going, and it
would not do to let the right time go by. She seemed to
be making the utmost effort not to give way.

" What time ? " asked Father Debree, in a gentle, sad
voice, still looking away from her.

" The time to speak to me as one that has an interest
in you and cares for you ; and to let me speak to you, as
one that you care for and feel an interest in."

■f ' ',!', ■:

*(''' il*

Jill .-■ 1

430

THE NEW PRIEST.

■ ,

J'^

)

1
Hi

1 J

Her voice was just so near to breaking, and, at the
same time, so timid, as to be exquisitely moving ; just
such an one as is most hard to be resisted.

He turned again toward her and answered : —

" For such an interest as belongs to a Roman Catholic
priest "

" But no more, yet ? " she asked, more timidly and
more brokenly than before ; perhaps more movingly.

" No ! there cannot be more ! " he said, " I must work
out my own work, alone." ,

She put her two hands silently before her face ; no
sound escaped her lips.

The child ran to her and lifted up one little hand to
the lady's bended arm, and leaned the head against her,
looking toward him wonderingly.

" It is a hard thing," continued he, " but I cannot help
it."

At these words she took her hands from her face, on
which were the wet traces of silent tears, and some of her
black hairs taken in them, and with the beautiful look of
earnest truth, said : —

" No ! that is not so ; you mean that you choose that
the necessity shall exist: it is, because yo.i make it"

" You ought to say, I have made it," answered he,
most sadly; "but being made, it is. It was made long
ago."

" Ah ! but only God's Will is a law that cannot change.
Your will stands only as long as you hold it up ; and
when it is against the right, it ought to go down."

" I know it ; I know it ; " he answered, " none knows
it better than I, but a man may not at a moment be able
to disentangle himself of the consequences of his own act,
and I am not."

at the

:; j'lst

athoHc

ly and
t work

ce ; no

tiand to
ist her,

ot help

face, on
3 of her
look of

)se that
t"

|red he,
e long

Ichange.
|p ; and

knows
)e able
|wn act,

FATHER DEBREE'S WALK FROM BAY-HARBOR. 431

" And have you rid yourself of all obligations but
those of that priesthood?" she said more strongly than
before, as if she knew just the weight of the weapon that
she was using.

" No, indeed ! " said he, still sadly. " I never felt
more strongly, that they must all be discharged ; but each
must have its time ; the highest first." No one could
mistake, for a moment, the sorrowful firmness with which
he insisted, for want of feeling; a woman with her nice
sense and quick sympathy, could, least of all, mistake.

" Have what you call the higher a right before the
earlier ? "

" You mistake me ! " he answered in the same sad way ;
" I mean that the soul must save its own life, before any
thing; that when it is struggling through the blinding
billows and land is yet far, it must give all its strength to
that one single thing ; it must struggle to the land. To
undo wrong is the first and nearest way of doing
right."

When a man cries out of the Deep of his strong na-
ture, the voice is a more moving one than that of woman.
His was not broken, but it came from within his pale
worn face and mournful eye, and told what was going' on
there. There was nothing in it like a pleading for pity ;
there was nothing in it like a vaunt of battling-out, all
alone ; it was the calm voice of a great, brave soul in ex-
tremity. She answered it as such, and answered like a
woman.

" You are struggling, then ? " she exclaimed, and cast
her eyes towards Heaven, and held up thither her clasped
hands, while tears ran down her cheeks. " Are you ?
And may no one share the siruggle with you ? May no
one be at your side ? " she asked, at length, turning

ibfl

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432

THE NEW PRIEST.

a,'?'

!•!

m ;i

•1:^:;-'

mm\n.

her weeping eyes toward him and holding out toward him
her clasped hands.

" No ! it cannot be ! It is mi/ struggle, and mine
only ; I must finish it alone. I have no right to syra-
})athy ; and, while I wear this character of a Roman
priest, will not seek comfort where such a priest may not
look for it. Nor do I need human comfort. I feel my-
fcelf borne up and on ; and so it must be."

There was something indescribably grand in the mourn-
ful calmness w'tlh which he spoke; but there was some-
thing, also, touching to the very heart ; and of such a
woman as this, who evidently felt the tenderest and
strongest interest in him. As he spoke, his eyes looked
far forth as if they could see the far-off and deep-heaving
ocean, though no eye could see it from that spot.

So there was a great gulf between them still. How-
ever her heart might yearn toward him, they were sepa-
rate. But a woman's heart never loses hope, nor counts
any thing impossible that it needs ; and she pleaded in a
woman's way : —

" I do not fear for the end," she said ; " No, no, — if the
work be what I hope and think ! and I know you will not
need nor wish human help. — But have you no regard for
my suffering ? " Immediately she cried, " No, I cannot
feign ; that argument was only forced, and you would not
take it in earnest. Yet you are not right. Will you
still put off my claim to do my duty, as you insist on
doing yours ? "

" When I cease to be a Roman Catholic pri(?st, — when
I am thrust out from the Roman Catholic Church," — he
began ; (and these were heavy things, and he said them
slowly, stopping there and leaving the sentence begun,
but not ended.) She looked at him, and he had his eyes

ird bim

i mine
to syra-
lloman
nay not
i3el my-

I mourn-
3 some-
such a
•est and
3 looked
-heaving

. How-
ire sepa-
)r counts
ided in a

), — if the
1 will not
2gard for
I cannot
^'ould not
^Vill you
insist on

t, — when
ch,"— he
aid them
;e begun,
his eyes

FATHER DEBRKE'S WALK FROM BAY-nARBOR. 433

still turned towards the far-off, de(?p-heaving ocean, that
was beyond the reach of tlie eye's glance.

She had not clianged her })osture, exce[)t that she had
drawn up her clasped hands and nested her face upon
them, while traces of tears lingered in her eyes, and were
not dried off from her cheeks. She did not break the
stillness he had h^ft. The child was gazing up into her
face. Tlie stillness was deep indeed. The sun was
mounting noiseh'ss up the sky ; the shadows lay silent
upon the grass ; and little yellow butterflies, without a
sound, were flitting now and then ; while the wash of
water on the beach seemed to be against some barrier
quite outside of this still spot.

He turned toward her again, and said, calmly and
strongly : —

" Doubtless you know the nature of this conflict. If
you b(;lieve it to be a religious one, you are right."

" Thank God ! " cried she, suddenly, while the sudden
tears filled up her eyes again ; " I thought so ! Oh, I
knew it ! I knew it must be ! And yet not ? "

He answered : —

" It is indeed a thing to thank God for ; but the end is
not yet."

To her it seemed as if the end could not be far off
from the beginning, for she, like a woman, looked only at
the distance from one point to the other in the spirit, and
did not count the weary toil of climbing down and making
a way through thickets and across deep gulfs, and climb-
ing up.

" Why is it so long ? " she asked. " What is there
between seeing error and renouncing it ? and what is
there between renouncing it and taking up the truth you
knew before ? — I speak out of a woman's heart ; I am

I!
pi

4nf

vwv. NKW nnisT

hnl !i womjui." she miIi1('«', . ncckinu; licrsrlf'. lis if she wcit
p)in«x lot) \]\<\.

" Yoii hnvc (lone no wron^i,'* ho saitl : '* hnl i( is not nil
so siinph'. Il in m Uin<l ^vish to spfiro iho ihrocs of'jigony
\\v,\\ luiist h(» hojiio ; l>nl ihov tjmiiot h<> spMnMl. (mmI'm
work iniist ii\ko (itxl's limo : m»»(1 llioro is hul onn \\i\y
for Tnnn in il — wrosllin*; mii'I prMvor. This is nol fill ;
iIkm-o nro ninnv. ntMov ihinjrs lo Ix' dono miuI siilVorrd,
it"

Aii'Min ho lofl lln* sonltMico wilhoul end, nnd looked
townrd lh(> I'mt son.

•'li'" sho ropc'Mh'd ;illor him. Tlio word nindo it
sv(Mn MS il" i( were iMrlhor lo lh(> otnl lluin sho h.-id snd-
dotdv h«>|>od -iiMv. MS il fhdi vwA nii^hl porliMps novor ho
r(\Mohod. "I didn't ihiidv oi" muv ' il'.'" Sho omsI hor
ov<\s sMdIy to tho ijronnd.

" 1 ihonghl,' sho h(^»:Mn M,i:Min, "how short this iil'c* wns,
and lunv nnoorlMin : — i lhon<>hl iIimI whal wo nnt Mwny
from ns now. v niMv novor. pcM'hMps. Iimvo in onr power
.Mij.Min ! WliMl we liMve n«>w. wi* nnisl nse now. I
thonuhl »>i //^"^ -'ind I lhon;2,ht tluil a wrong whieh might
b,."-

Sho pMns(Ml. and, lookin;j: np, smw his ev(>s fixed eiir-
neslly npon hor.

Wo look np hor nnlinislnMJ sentence : —

" a wronix ^vhieh niMv he righted now, onght not

to WMil."

"Oh! 1 do nol m(\Mn m wrong dono \o nn/scff. Il 'm
nol mv own h;»ppioess llril I .''m lookir.g tor," slw ex-
elainKMl ; and. pMl(> a ' slu^ wm^, a llnsh <'Min<> over her (aee,
wliieh showed iiow singly Ium* mind had followed its ohj«'et,
withont giving u thonght to aiy possibili'y of mi '.on-
ptrnotion.

m¥

i..r

■ ^v:--

• .\;

wcro

u)t nil

ngony

way

1)1 nil ;

IooU<mI

(!«(!<> it.
1(1 simI-
>vrr lio
!isl luT

Wo was,

t !UV!Vy

1' nowor

)\V. I

nn<il»t
(1 car-

irht not

,1\.' «>X-

cr I'acr,

(ll)j(M't,

tni ' on-

KAIIIIsU l)l,IU{Ki;S WALK KUOM UAY IIAUUOK. {[}-,

"Oil ! no!" lie aiiswru'd, •'no Hiispi«'ioti of H«'l(i^lin«<H'<
roiild IjihIcii i'scll' u|M»n your wonls or on yniir look ; but
it' I \vcM'<< led aloM^ niilil I could iiol liiil tlit'ow oil' tliirt
priesthood Mild nliiiiidoii lliirA ( 'Inircli, I HJiall ^o lliroiitrli
ovcM'v step of it, (Jod JH'iMfr my lirlpi r ; ntid llicn' juo
many slops and hard oiir^j, lh;it y^n\ know n<»lhin;^ (»!.
Iiiil I would l»< nioiir in what I do ai.d MnlV<-r ; none ran
do Of Im'mi' it lot' inc, and none oti^ht to do and hnir it
with mo. You have mot mo Imtc nnoxporlrdly. Wo
mayor may not moi>r a<j^ain, llchai. I lio|)<> wo Hhall.
I hav(^ t(dd you, alont>, what you havo a ri;^ht to know.
My way is not yot <'l(')ir. II' I live, and ( iod leads me.
out of this eonlliet to the end toward wlii(di I am now
drawn, we shall, it Me will, nieef ji;j^!iin, and not a< wo
part now. Wait ( iod's tinn', and |>iay lor me! ( iood-
bye!"

As he said these words, he turned snddetdy on his
luM'l ; hut whether it was that the sad lone, in which ho
Buid wiM'ds ol' lillh> hope, had overcome her, or that the.
deep reeling ol' his larewell touched her more nearly than
over, she spranji; forward a pace or two alter him.

" Walt(M' !" she crie(|, |(>nderly and mournfully, " Wal-
tiM" ! not so ! W(' may, indeed, never meet a;^ain. Let,
not this b<; all — lor ever ! Ij(!t m(! say " — —

As ho Inrnod rouml a;^ain, it mi<!;lit ho seen that his
ey(>s were lilh^d with tears ; but ho was just as calm and
8elf-|)osscssed as b(^foro.

" Ah ! if wo meet again," he. said, " it may bo for mo
to oi)en a sad heart; it may b(^ for me to go <lovvn upon
my kneos for your forgiveness. — My way is not y(!t
clear," ho i*o[)ealed, and then said, " Now will you leave
mc ? And may God bless you ! "

lie hold his bund out to iior, and she silently took it in

ii0

It*

4 no

T11K NKW rUiKST.

:i\

' 1 *.^!

S I

;-. J

bodi Ikm's, and ihcn silcnlly roIonsiMl il. SiloiiHy, also,
tho oliiM oanio l\)rwanl, nniiotiiMMl at lirst, ami lioM up to
hiiu the band tliat was <lis«Mi}2;af;<Ml fVoai Ium* apron : and
>vh(Mi he saw 1um% ho took hor hand, and stooping down,
kissed her npon hor t'orohcMid.

" (to«l hUvss you, too, htth' Mary !" ho said, and tlum
gently dropped her hand.

Th<' lady spoke onee nioro : —

" Oh ! Walter ! ( — l(>t nio eall ytin hy yonr own name !)
INIay (it)d l/iess i^ott ! 1 am of no aeeonnt ; hnt you — •
oh! what work yon might do lor (lod ! Oh! ;w(/// (Jod
bless yon ! "

Then taking little INTary hy the hand, she led her very
fjist away.

" INIannna ! " said the little girl, wluMi, aOiM* getting to
the road, she sat »h)wn at its side npon the beach, " /,s ho
my nnele?" It was the same (pieslion that had been
asked at her in the CMiurehyard.

Her mother's head was b«^two(>n her hands npon her
knees. She answered thickl}, through her weeping,
"Oh! no, Darling."

Little INIary was ready with a child's substitute, and
she said : —

" He's my fricmJ^ then, isn't he, ISramma? He called
rae INIary, now ; that's what I lohl him my name was."

Earthquakes and great convulsive changes of the earth,
— the slip of ice-elitfs, the cutting off of fertile field?, \>y
the mighty stream asiray, the overturning of a kingly
house, or razing of a boundary, — any of these will find
its place in history ; but that for which no human record
is enough, and which is noted in God's Book alone, — a
thing of more account than any change of earth or em-
pire, — is the upturning of a single man's being.

il up to
n ; luvl
; down,

immo !)
1 you — •
lay (iod

lior very

iMling to
1, " is ho
iinl been

iipon licr
weeping,

lute, and

rAlUKU ininUKK'S WAI.K TKOM hay IIAIMU)U. \w;

Dor^ !iny inim wlio vr:\\\^ \\\U know — (iiy, sninr of
tluMn ilo) -wliMl il in lo Irrl (lull llm world ol' n niMn's
l)«'in;^ is l(r<"Mkin;j; IVom ilM orhil, niid nnisl lie lifuvrd iiilo
\\ iK'w one, nnd llicr*' riisl(>iH>d Ity snrr hund^ ol dniwiii}^
iind willidiMWUi;:^, ho not, in (lio tnrnn liinr, Im'Iwcmmi (ho
new and old, (o wander wild, and «^o lo .vreek?

>2^
^.^

lie called

wai^."
Ihe earth,
iudda i»y
la kingly
I will tind
m record
|\lone, — a

li or cm-

^hm

« ill'

s •'

1 .18

THli NKW PRIEST.

CITAPTKU XLVir.

I I

m.'i

in H

'^. ■j <■ i I

AN OTENING INTO FATIIKK DKUREK d HEART.

NOTE w!is l)roii;rl,t to Mr. Wrlloii by a child
wlioin lie dill not i^now. The hjuulwritiiijj; of the
tuldrcss was stran;>(' to him ; and tlio seal, which
was lieraldic, was strari<j;cly rudo in its cuttiuj^.
" Who sent this ? " lie asked, as he opened it.
"Father l^natins, sir," answered the child.
The reading within was as follows, written with a
pencil : —

" lie that once was Mrs. Harre's husband is a Roman
Catholic i)riest ; but he is a man. — That abominable in-
sinuation has been followed up to its author, and shall be
put down, whatever it may cost.

" AVill Mr. Wellon, lor the love of God, contradict it
and Jfout it, in my name ? Words cannot be invented,
too strong to express Mrs. Barrb's purity.

Most hurriedly
« Castle Bay, &c. D—

Mr. Wellon hastened to Mrs. Barre.

" I've a note from Mr. Debree," he said, and gave it
into her eager, trembling hand.

" Yes," she said, glancing at the outside, " that's his I—
—I don't know the seal" — (she did not seem to have

rave it

AN OI'KNINCJ INTO KATIIKK DKISIMIK'S IIKAUT. 43J)

frliiiu'cil al il, ill opciiiii;; tlui iiolr.) \\y one rush of tlio
hlootl slic jficw jj;liaslly pule, as Iwr eyes slraiii('(l ii|iun
tli(! tii'sl words ; ilicii lii'i' lips (piivcrcd, and she scoiikmI
iirarly ovt-rcoMM'. She rrad il llii«)ii;j;li, lor a slight sob,
or iiiarlicMilatc (^xclainatioii, inaiUcd Ixr liaviii^ coiiiu to
tlio end ; but she still held it with both bauds, and pored
upon it.

J*r('s('nlly, rccolh^-tiu^ hcrsrif, slio said : —

" Hut you nnist hav«' it."

Ill t'oldiii;^ it n^ain, sb(> ai^iiiii noticed the seal, but not
closely, and said, in an absent way, —

*' No, I don't know this, — I don't know this;" and
fj;ave it back to JNIr. Wellon.

He looked at the seal more elosi^ly than slu; had dono.
"The letters seem to spell ' Dkhukk,' but with an 'I,'"
said he; "the true way, J suppose. I never saw it
written."

" Yes, it's Norman; ' I)E lUMK;'— and l[iijj;uenot,"
said Mrs. Jiarre, weepin<jj, and speakin;^ like one whose
mind was upon other thin;j;s.

Perhaps to divert her attiiution, Mr. Wellon continued
his examination.

" This appears to be a heap of atones," said he.

" A breach in a wall," she said, rising, and taking from
her desk a letter which she put into his hand. The seal
bore a well-delined impression of a broken wall, across
whose breach a gauntletted hand held a s[)ear. Tho
motto was " Non citua."

" It came from Rouen, in the old wars," she explained,
" and the I'amily added the word ' Barre,' ibr ' Chemin
Barre,' because one of them ' barred ' the way, single-
handed ; " and she gave herself again to her thoughts.

" It was ' De Brie-Barre,' then ? " he said ; but added,

'l^^^l

440

THE NEW PP^EST.

immediately, " Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Barre, if I seem
to have been drawing out your confidence. It was en-
tirely without a thought."

" It does not matter, now," she answered ; " Mr.
De Brie was my husband ; but that name Ignatius is a
new one, when he became a Romish priest. His own
name is Walter."

Almost the first person whom he met in the road

was Miss Dare, and he gave her the note to read. She
wept, like Mrs. Barre.

" So he is her husband ! " she exclaimed. Then turn-
ing the letter over, her eye, too, was caught by the seal,
which she examined more closely than the wife had done.

" This must be a fancy of his own," she said ; " a
mockery of his name; it reads 'DEBRIS,' and the
charge, (or 'vhatever it is,) is a heap of stones."

f <

w •:

!i|ii!

FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS.

441

'Mi

((

CHAPTER XLVIIL

FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS.

t' ^jHE body was not found; the Grand Jury had
indicted Father Nicholas for abduction, and not
murder ; tlie day of trial was fixed for the
fifteenth of October.

Mr. Wellon made several calls at the Priest's house,
in Peterport, without finding the occupant at home.
Father De Brie had kept himself entirely secluded ; and,
for the time, had resorted to Brine's empty house, on
Grannam's Noddle.

Within a few days he was again at Bay-Harbor, and
begged leave to talk with Father Terence. The good
old father looked anxious.

" Didn't ye finish those preliminaries ye were having
with Father Nicholas, that time ? " he inquired.

" I believe I have finished with Father Nicholas, and
perhaps with more," answered his visitor, with an em-
phasis quite alarming to the worthy elder ; and from
which, and its antecedents and consequents, he sought an
escape, thus : —

" Then have ye any objection to take a step across the

hall to the library ? and bring ? " but, surprised at the

manner of the person whom he addressed, he exclaimed,
"But what ails je, man? Is it angry ye are? Or
troubled ? or what 's it ? "

^i Ml

!»!(,;

442

THE NEW PRIEST.

*'!

'ji

n j>

li. h i

I -

fifiii

" Gin you oblige me with an lioiir's conversation, good
Father Terence ? "

" Ah ! now, don't be calling me good ; no man*s good,
and me least; but what'll you want of an hour's con-
versation ? Take my advice, now ; let what ye'iv?
after having, do ye. It's best not saying anny thing about
those troublesome things. It's riot good, quarrelling, anny
way, and laste of all with a man ."

" My dear Father Terence," said De Brie, with a
decision and force which showed that he knew, perfectly,
what he was about, and could take his own part, " quarrel-
ling is not my way ; but when I am unavoidably brought
into collision with any man, I am ready to meet that
emergency. — Will it be convenient to you to give me so
much time ? I hope I am not asking too much."

Poor Father O'Toole, who had lived a quiet life, and
exercised a gentle sway for so many years, was uneasy
at finding himself among these strong spirits of a younger
generation ; but like an honest man, as he was, deter-
mined to take up the duty that fell to him, little as he
liked it.

" Sure, if you want it, and I can be of anny service to
ye, I'll do it with all my heart ; " and he sat down to the
duty. On second thoughts he locked the door, and then
seated himself again.

The younger priest began abruptly: —

" Father Terence, Tm losing my faith in the Roman
Catholic Church ! "

'• ' The Roman — Catholic — Church ! ' and ' losing faith ! '
Ave Maria! — Sub tuum ^ircpsidiuni.* — Why, man, ye're
mad ! Don't lose your faith ! " exclaimed the kind-
hearted old man, starting to his feet, and losing his pipe,
which fell, in disregarded fragments, on the floor. —
* Hail, Mary! under thy protection.

good

good,

con-

yc'n-

about

, anny

nth a
foctly,
larrel-
rought
it that
me so

f'e, and
uneasy
ounger
deter-
as he

vice to

to the

Id then

loman

I faith!'

kind-
Is pipe,

FATHER DE BRIE DOUDTS.

443

"Don't be letting that difficulty with tliis man, beyond,
— sure you know there's not many bad priests."

" No ; I'm thinking of something else ; I forget him.—
Father Terence, this is no personal difficulty between
me and any one. My difficulties are religious. I've
lost " the younger man was continuing, in a sad, de-
termined tone ; but was interrupted.

" Be easy, now ! Take care what ye're saying. It
was only ye were ^ losing,^ a wliile ago, but now it's, 'i've
lost* Don't say that ! Don't say it ! Take time ; take
time. And is yer memory going, too ? Ye say ye forget
Father Nicholas."

Silence followed, while the old man had his hand upon
the other's arm.

" Sit down again, now," he went on, in a kind way,
(though it was himselt' that had risen from his seat, the
younger not having been seated at all.) Father Terence
sat down again ; the other stood, as before, with his back
to the mantel-piece.

" Man dear ! " exclaimed P'ather Terence, sorrowfully,
after fixing himself in his seat. " IIow long are ye this
way ? I never hard a word of it, before* Moly Mother
of God ! What's this ! Poor man ! "

As he said this he looked most anxiously upon his
comjjanion.

" Father Terence ! " said the other, then, with a deep
calmness, his face being, at the same time, pale with the
strong feeling gathered at his heart, " ' Losing ' and ' lost,'
in faith, are nearer one another, than in other things. To
be losing is to have lost, already."

" Stop there, now ; say no more at present. Y' are
under some sort of delusion, I'm thinking. The way is
to turn from it, altowlher. You don't make use of the

,•(*

\\'%

£k

!S.,?.

« «

1 I

444

THE NEW PRIEST.

pipe, I believe ? Sure, we can wait till after tea, then,
can't we ? I'll have it early, too."

" Th.'Mik you ; but I've no appetite for food. I cannot
fairly eat or sleep, my mind is in 8uch a heaving state.
There is a hot force, within, striving for an outlet."

Father Terence answered with a cheeriness evidently
beyond his feeling : —

" But why does your mind be heaving ? my own never
heaves ; but just goes as steady and as true as the race
of a mill, "or whatever it is they call it, meaning the big
stone that goes round and round. Discipline is the thing ;
discipline for the body and the same for the mind, as well.
Sure, if I found a new thought coming up in my mind, I'd
know something was wrong about it."

'* You're happy, Father Terence, but I can never be
happy in the same way. What I believe, I believe ; and
what I don't believe, I do not."

" Very good, then," said Father O'Toole, evidently
anxious to prevent the other from getting further in his
speech, as if that would keep his thoughts back, also,
" sure, it's a small thing to believe. Here's the Faith, for
example, and he-3's myself; I say, 'I hold this faith and
will hold it till my last breath.' That's easy saying."

" It's easy speaking. Father Terence, if it be only
working of the tongue and lips ; but in my case, it could
only be without thinking. I cannot say so. I have once
thought it possible, and for a long time, have been satis-
fied with not doubting, as if that were believing, and have
not doubted because I would not doubt. It cannot be so,
with any thing essential to salvation. I must believe, in-
deed, if I believe at all. A dawning light is beginning to
make me see that the claim of the Roman Catholic
Church " (the old priest hitched himself, a little, at this

, then,

cannot
I state.

idently

1 never
lie race
the big
) thing ;
as well,
iind, I'd

ever be
fQ ; and

^^idently
!r in his
k, also,
aith, for
lith and

ng."
)e only

lit could

[ve once
m satis-
id have
)t be so,

|ieve, in-
ining to
atholic
, at this

FATHER DE BRIE DOUBTS.

445

title) " is but a thing made up of rags and spangles,
though by lamp-light it was splendid. Things that I
dared not doubt begin to look like scarecrows and elR-
gies. The Catholic Church I was brought up in "

" What time is it ye see these sights ? " asked the elder,
as if he had found the key to his companion's strange
state of mind ; " is it by day, or by night, ye said ? "

The other heard with the gravest patience and polite-
ness ; and his mighty fervor and force lifted the surround-
ings, and kept the scene up to its own dignity.

" I ask pardon for speaking in figures," he said,
"which, perhaps, spoken hast"!y, have made my meaning
indistinct. — I mean to say that I don't feel safe ; — I
doubt ; — I'm afraid of the Roman (Jkurch ! "

" What's the matter, then ? " asked Father Terence,
anxiously. '' What's it ye mane ? "

"I fear I'm in a ship unseaworthy," said Father De
Brie, sadly. " Oh ! it might be sound ! Would God,
it were ! "

" But tliore's no ship, man ; y'are not in a ship, at all."

" Ah ! I spoke in a figure again ; I mean this Church,
— this Church, — Father Terence ! "

" And why wouldn't she be seaworthy, then ? " asked
Father Terence, evidently not knowing how to take what
the other said. " A good manny years she's going ! " and
he looked up, steadily, into De Brie's face, who answered,
slowly and thoughtfully, —

" But oughtn't she to have been cond ? " — He

broke off. — " I don't wish to pain you, Father Terence,"
he said, " but what can I do ? This doubt will come ! "

" Aren't there bad men in all of them ? " asked the old
priest, going back to his first explanation.

" This has nothing to do with Crampton, — unless this

TlIK NKW rUIMST.

p'j , [

pi ' ■

: t

: •'■ t

liii

Chtirvh tuMlirs liim wluit bo is. INIy <iii<'8li(Mi is with ////.v
(Vmrr/»J NotTho Holy Cafliolio Clmrch ol'llio ('rcnlH— "

" Aiul whiit ails tiio Church? — sun', if sh(^ was jjood
(Miouiijh once, ship's ijood (MiojiljIi how. — Y'nrn not for
g<»iiiijf haok ? What Cluin'h is thcro hut tho one ?"

" I nuis( satisfy this (h>ul)t, l''ath(M* 'INtimico, if it costs
my lil'o ! — Is this a clxuifV I lis cyca were ri'sth'ss,
aiui j)rcs(>iitly ho boi^an to walk th(^ room.

"Oh (loar! Oh dear! Is this what it is!" snid
Father Torouco, in ijroat pain.

Tho yonnijj |)ri<> t stopped in his walkinj^, very much
agitated.

*' I came by stops, Father Tohmico. T saw what seemed
innovations, contradictions, corruptions, falselioods; but 1
tbougitt tiiat auf/ton'ft/ was there, and shut my <'yes, and
kept thorn shut. — Shall 1 dare this? Having eyes, must.
I not sec? If, before my eyes, a man is : lowly clind)ing
into Ciirist's place on earth, an<l a woman okscuring both
Father and Son in hoaveU' "

" Are ye sottitig yor foot on the r"'aitl> ? " a8k(Ml P^ithor
Terence, mournfully. " A man can't climb to Christ's
lilace.''

"Tho larger and stronger party are pushing him to it.
If be take it, what? JMan is tlu> Head! A\\ ! Christ is
the Iload — tho Church, His Hody, tho fulness of Jlim
that nileth all in all! Christ!"

" Sure, ye can belitne as tho Church believes, can yo
not? Isn't tho Church infallible?" argued tho worthy
elder, in bis kind, simple way.

" But, dear Father Terence," the younger answered,
strongly and respectfully, " a jxwt of the Church ! — sup-
pose that, next, they make it one man "

** But what need ye be troubling yerself to pick into
her faith ? Why can't ye leave that to the Church ?

"h !

-sup-

Ick into
luircli ?

FATMKK DK lUilK DOIIIITS.

4t7

Docsn'l slw say, iHrrsrlf, tlijit w(3're ull to boliiivo without
doiihliiiir ? "

"Oh! I would if I coiihl. I hjiv(i Iriccl il." — IIciv, ho
looked lixcdly at his hcjircr, hm if coiisiilcriii^ his ojisy
coiiditioii of coiitciil. llo added: "It will nut do. I
innsl. l»(5liov(^ for inyHoll! I hco it. Mine is no doubt of
th«^ (alliolic. Faith, or tlu> Catholic ('hin-<'.h!"

" Thrr*', now 1 Yc'rc coniin;^ round. Yc'll <lo, uf'l*!!* a
hit. That's well said ; yv sec. yo tinist h('li«iV(s" said
Father O'Toole, his kindly heait }i;oin;; hefore, his head.

"Ah! I wish I could satisfy tnysell' as (easily as you
ihitdv ; hut I catniot. The Holy Scripture "

" Uul what, sort of way is thai, theti?" asked Father
TiM'ence. " If the whole of us would he pickin<; this and
that article, sure, which one of us would l)(di(!VO every
one of theiu ? hut if we liold as the; (Church holds, sure
the C'hurch is accountable, and not we."

The otlur w«'nt on : —

"There's a true; C'hurch, — ay, and a visi})le Church,
too, — the liody of CJhrist, in which we nujst be members;
but is the man lost, in it? Is his reason f^oiK^ ? Is his
consciences j^'one ? Can he bury his accountability?"

Father Terence heard, but scarcely understood : —

"Ah, llu'u !" said he, "that's th(; very thin;^ ; th(! man
won't be lost in it ! No, an«l his reason's not K<"><N "'"''
his conscieiuH' ay I her ; it's not that bad he is. No, no."

As he spoke he rose ajjjain, and laid his hand upon the

yoimj^er pri

vsl s

arm, soolhin<j;ly.

" Ah ! Fath(;r Terence," said De Brie, taking the hand
in his, " 1 am going over the old questions, — the same
old questions that made martyrs and imm of faith in
all ages — though I'm no niartyr ! — the same that
Luther, s ) hmg as lie kept within —"

w /.im

r M

*■;;

m<. I..

448

THE NEW PRIEST.

ti;

•}<( '!'■ H

tit •"

Father Terence half drew away his liand, instinctively,
and his voice was a little discomposed, as he interrupted
the speaker, at this word —

'' But why do ye be stirring old questions ? sure,
haven't they made trouble enough, already ? "

" The questions are all old. Father Terence ; all ques-
tions are old ; the same over and over again ; only new
to each man in turn, when they compel him to answer.
' What mus' I do ^o \)e aved ? ' u an old quesLlan of that
sort. The x ,^1;'.'; outvva/d words were the old Creeds!"

" Hadn't t'H3 "liir Ji Holy Scripture, and Tradition, and
Infallibility?" asked th" older priest, kindly, seeking to
lead him back to the old ground.

" Compared with the written Word, what is Tradition ?
^nescit vox missa reverti.^* Opposed to the written Word,
what is Tradition ? Naught ! — and Infallibility, — who
believes the better for it ? We doubt or disbelieve par-
ticulars, and think we can believe the general. ' / believe
as the Church believes,' and yet half the articles of her
faith, perhaps, we do not believe ; when even if we be-
lieved every article, iind every article were true, that
would not be believing in Christ so as to be saved by
Him ! Add Obedience ; will that make it ? Never ! "

The speaker seemed rather thinking aloud, to have
room for his tliron2;insr thou<2;hts, than conversing.

" Ah ! what's this ? what's this ? " said Father Terence,
mournfully, '" is i". leaving the Catholic Church, y'are ? "
(he withdrew his hynd, and turned away.) " What ever'U
the Vicar General say -, and him telling myself, only a
little ago, ye were the most hopeful priest in the coun-
try ? " He sat down, heavily, in his chair.

" I will not be out of the Church ; it is the Body of

* Speech uttered knovs not to come back.

■i!!l

FATFIER DE BRIE DOUBTS.

411)

irl"
have

jrence,
'are r

ever'll

jonly a

coun-

lody of

Christ," said the other, *' and I believe every word of the
Creeds; iu the Catholic Church; its priesthood "

His hearer, at this last sentence, made an impulsive
raovem mt o+' hope, and was about to speak in that mood ;
but he Iiad snatched at r?veral hopeful-seeming words,
already, and found theiii nothing. The glow, therefore,
upon his face faded, and he did not speak.

" The ords in which Apostles made profession of their
faith ; what Saints and Martyrs spoke with breath flicker-
ing through the flames ; what babes and sucklings gath-
ered from the lips of dying fathers, and mothers doomed
to death, I will hold, while I live ! God grant me .. I ""^e,
moreover, a faith hke theirs, of which one of tl'in - d:
2^he life that I now live, I live by faith in the So7i of
God/"

Father Terence spoke again : —

" And what's to hii.der you keeping on, j ; ,« ihe old
way ? " he asked ; *"■ and can't ye have that faith in the
Church, quiet an' happy, without flyun an' flingun out ? '*

As the other did not immediately answer, Father
O'Toole followed up the advantage.

" There, now ! Take time to that." I know ye will.
Ye didn't think of that," said he, fairly trembling with the
excitement of his feelings. " I'll leave ye with yerself,
for a little ; I'd only be plaguing ye with my talking,
when ye want to be alone. Ye'll just stay, and go, and
do what ye like in this house."

80 saying, he suddenly went out and shut the door.

'Hi,

,f^

* ' '. ■

r.';.!

;< !'

'f :;^

!': IJ

! : 1

4r»o

THE NEW PKIEST.

CHAPTER XLIX.

A STRANGKR APPROACIIP:S LADFORD.

UR NewfoiinJlnnd skies are as lovely as those of
other and choicer lands ; although the gorgeous
and ex(juisite hues that elsewhere hang on flower-
Btems in the heavy sunsiiine do not brighten the face of
the earth here, but have sought the weeds under our salt
northern waves and made them beautiful. The sky is
glorious at morn and eve in summer, and at summer's
noon is clear and high ; and in the night, when the sun
is gone and has left his place to the stars, then also the
air is so clear, that it is beautiful for that very thing : in
winter, it is flashed and flushed all over with the Northern
Lights.

In the evening of one of the flne days of September,
one bright, strong star was poised in the eastern sky,
alone, shining up the open water between the Backside
of Peterport and Castle-Bay, and throwing its far-world
light faintly among the shrubs and . ees. Its wake upon
the Bay was not seen from the point at which we find
some of the characters of our story, on that evening ;
though its glory in the heavens was seen most clearly
over the wild, rough headland, half-a-mile away, at Mad
Cove. The point was behind Mr. Ur.>>ion's house, ncsar
the Worrell, whore the .-^tccp descent goes sidelong down

:i !

lose of
)rgeou9
flower-
face of
our salt
1 sky 19
immer's
the sun
also the
ling : in
orthern

jtember,
2rn sky,
iackside
ir-world
[ke upon
we find
pvening ;
clearly
at INIad
ise, near
111"- down

A STUANGKR APPROACHES LADFORD.

4:)l

to the tiny Cjve and bit of pebbly beach. Just at that
plare, a person who was coming down IVoin the direction
of the house, stop[)ed and turned eastward, sih'utly ; and,
after a moment's pause, turning again, said aloud, but as
if exchiimijig to himself only, or a])Ostropiiizing the beau-
tiful phuiet : —

" Star of the Sea ! — It shines like sweet hope to tiie
guilty, and a harbor to the shipwrecked ; — like the gate
of Heaven, ajar,"

These words, — mostly a translation from a Roman
Catholic Jtlymn to the Virgin, " Salve, Virgo jiovensr —
were said with the accent and manner of a gentleman,
and with the fervor of deep feeling. In the dim light,
it might be seen also, by one near him, that his dress
was not the jacket and trowsers of the planters of the
country.

At the instant of his turning, a man who was coming
up the sidelong path from the little cove, had come
within five or six yards of him.

" Good evening to you, my friend ! " said the speaker,
to the man coming up. " What fare, to-day ? Apostles
sometimes toiled a good many hours, and got nothing for
their labor."

" Much the same wi' us, then," answered the man, in a
very meek voice, taking a pipe out of his mouth and
putting it in his poctcet, leaving the evening to all its
darkness.

"Ah! we're well met: this is William Ladford, that
I've heard so much of: the best boatman in the Bay?"

" I'se agoun up here a bit, sir : did 'ee want any
thing wi' I ? " said the man, as if he had not heard, or
had not understood.

" Yes ; since we've met, I should like a moment's talk

:ii

"f I

i' '

i:>2

THE NEW PRIEST.

:■;, f

IN!

■■ 1 '

f !

^fh

I i

Iff
I

m ;!

;*i

with yon. T think T know sonielliiiig that may he a good
(leal for your advantage."

The gentleman, accidentally or designedly, put his cano
across the path, against a little f'ur-trec or bush, working it
in his hands as he spoke.

" JNIuhhe, this 'am' person, her -away, abeam of us,"
said the fisherman (turning to the right hand as he spoke,
though he had not seemed to look in that direction before) ;
'' mubbe 'e belongs to 'ee, sir; do 'e?"

" I didn't notice him," answered the gentleman. " There
was a man to keej) me (C/m[)any going home from Mr.
Urston's, here ; he'll know my voice, if it's he."

So saying, he called : — " Who's there ? "

No answer was given, and the figure moved away
hastily, and disa[)j)eared.

" Ef ee'U be so good as excuse me, for a spurt, I'll go
down and make the punt all right, sir. The wind's like
to come u}) here out o' Nothe-east, bum-bye, accord'n as
the moon rises. — It isn' right to ax a gen'leman o' your
soart to wait upon the like of I ; " he added, hesitating,
for manners' sake.

" Can I help you about the boat ? " asked the gentle-
man, in a hearty way that would be very taking with
most fishermen.

" Thank'ee, sir, I'll do very woll alone;" answered
the man, turning and going, with a quick, light step, down
the sloping turf, and then down the rocky ledge that
makes the path athwart the cliff.

In the black amphitheatre broken out of the rock, he
was soon lost. The moon, to whose rising he had re-
ferred, was coming, but was not yet come ; and though
the light began to spread itself out before her, it did not
make its way into this abyss.

A STKANGER ArPROACHES LADFORD.

403

a good

is cano
■king it

of US,"

1 ppoke,
eibre) ;

' There
Dm Mr.

1 away

, I'll go
id's like
jrd'n as
o' your
sitating,

gentle-
ig with

iswered
p, down
ge that

rock, he
lad re-
though
did not

The gentloman, after waiting a moment wliere he Imd
been standing, began also to go down, saying, at the first
steps : —

" Si dt'scendcro ad inferos — " *

He might have gone thirty or forty yards, which would
have brought lilm near to the western wall, where the
patli ends, and where a practised eye couhl just make out
the black, bulky, shajx'less masses of rock, across which
the broken pathway led to the swashing water outside.
Here he stood stiU.

The fisherman seemed to have gone into darkness,
through some opening in it, as into a cave by its mouth.
Only the sounds from his operations, now here, now
there, made to seem very distinct and near by the shape
of the place, witli its walls of rock, proved that he was
busy.

By the time the gentleman reached tlie ground above,
again, he found the fisherman close behind him. The
latter dropped from his shoulder one end of a long pole,
(which, from the click of its metal-shod point upon a
stone, as it fell, was probably a boat-hook,) and stood pre-
pared to listen.

The other said : —

" It occurred to me that you'd be just the man that a
friend of mine wants, for mate of a fine schooner ; and I
think I could get the place for you, if you'd like it."

" It's very kind of 'ee, sir, being a parfect stranger,"
returned Ladford, with something that sounded like irony.

" Noi »dy's a stranger to me ; my office makes me
every man's friend: I'm a clergyman. Besides, I happen
t-o know m( ve of you than you think ; 1 know that case of
Aherneihyy

" Do 'ee, now, sir ? " said Ladford, in a very stolid

* If I shall have gone down to hell.

ill

454

THE

NEW PRIEST.

way; '
doctor,

'I've

wasn

ahard

'e'd

a many cases.

was

great

" Pardon me," said the Clergyman, severely ; " I'm not
in the habit of wasting words, or trifling." He then
softened his voice, and added, " but I won't blame you ;
you're used to being on your guard, and think, perhaps,
I'm not sure of my man. I'll show you : Warrener
Lane, you've heard of, I think. I know him ; and I
know what happened in the hold of the ' Guernsey
Light,' on the Fourteenth day of December, Fifteen years
ago."

" If 'ee do, then," said Ladford, in better F^peech than
he had yet used, " you know no harm of me in it."

" Don't be afraid, my friend ; I don't bring this up aa
an accuser," said the Clergyman. " I mentioned it only
to show that I knew you. — 1 know about Susan Barbury,
too, and the child," he added, in a low and gentle voice.
" You see I know more than one thing about you."

Ladford moved on his feet, but was silent.

" I feel the more interested in you, for what I know ;
and if I can serve you, shall be rejoiced. What do you
think of the place I speak of; the 'berth,' as I suppose
you'd call it ? "

" Thank 'ee, sir ; I believe T'U stay where I am a
while. — I don't care much about places," said the fisher-
man.

" I understand your case, you know ; and I assure you
there'd be no danger. We can take care, — you'd be secure,
I mean, — and a pardon might be got out from the Crown,
too, and then you'd be free."

"Thank 'ee, sir; I believe I won't try the place, if it's
the same to you. Did 'ee know, sir, I'm summoned for
witness ? "

•'Ah ! I remember," said the Clergyman, with feeling.

great

ra not
then
you;
rbaps,
rrener
and I
ernsey
I years

b. than

5 up aa
it only
arbury,
3 voice.

know ;
do you
uppose

am a
fisher-

ire you
I secure,
rown,

I, if it's
led for

Feeling.

A STRANGER APPROACHES LADEORD.

455

"That would rest with God ; we musn't bargain. ^ Free'
ly lue have received ; freely ive give,^ "

Ladford, at this point, drew himself up.

'' I believe I'll just keep myself to myself, for the pres-
ent," said he, shouldering his boat-hook.

" Very good ; take care of yourself, then ! " said
Father Nicholas, and turned to move away; but his
})lae.i was likely to be tilled by two men, who made
their ai)pearance as the priest had said the last few
words, in a httlc louder tone tlian he had been speak-
ing in, and who came, at an easy walk, li'om the east-
ern end of the house, one of them whistling. They
both touched their hats, without any other salutation, as
they ])assed the priest now going up the same path by
which they were coming to the scene of the late conver-
t;ation.

" I must wish yoii a Good-evenun, too," said Ladford,
as they got within i ',*> feet of him, "so well as the
t'other gentleman;'* .!.'U he began backing down the
grassy slope towards tlie break in the rock, when two
other men appeared, coming more leisurely down the
path.

" It's too much throuble for ye, Misther Ladford," said
one of the advancing men. " Mebbe you won't mind one
Tim Croonan, that hasn't forgot yerself, anny way, nor
isn't likely to, ayther, I'm thinkinV

Ladford turned, and, at a steady gait, continued his
course toward the water.

" The old fox is going down to his hole," said the one
of the foremost men who had not yet spoken ; and both
quickened their steps. They were, at this moment, at about
the same distance from the man they were foUowmg aa

P n

fr:r' '

: .5!',

|'!r-:

45G

THE NEW PRIEST.

I'-:

'ill

mmm^

I ;

■*;'■

at first ; for, though they were coming fiii^t, yet the old
smuggler had a very rapid way of getting on, without
api)ar(int effort.

lie was on the ledge of rock that sloped down athwart
the precipice ; the moon was lighting up, heautifully, the
western side of the picturesque little place, and part of
the bottom, while it left in dee]) shadow that to the east,
and the landward side, as if they were yet in the block
from which the others — with their rounds, and flats, and
hollows, and deep crevices — had been cut.

" We've got good liould of him now," continued the last
speaker, as I^adford passed along this ledge, with the
moon shining broad upon his back, and showing even
the uncouth outlines of his dress. He turned once more
upon this narrow path, despite the nearness of his pur-
suers ; and as he did so, the man who had just spoken,
drew back and held back his companion with his hand,
saying, in a low voice : —

" Don't crowd him ! Give him time, and hell hang
himself all the harder."

Croonan had been by no means crowding ; and he
stood still very readily.

It seemed madness for the man, if he had any occasion
to fear these two pursuers, and wislied to escape them, to
loiter, as he seemed about to do, in his flight. At the
best he must go down, and tliere was no other way u]>
than that he was descending ; the wall which his path
traversed obliquely downwards, was, except that path, as
sheer and steep as masonry. So was the western side of
the amphitheatre. Below, to be sure, was the water, and
all these fishermen take to the water like seals — if they
have but something to put between them and it. If
he could reach the water — and launch his punt, moreover,

ce more

A STRANG KU APPROACHES LADI-ORD.

457

— before both or either of these two could overttike
him : then what ?

" I« it kind or neighborly of 'ee ? " asked Ladford, " to
come about the business you're on ? " stopping almost
within their very reach.

The first speaker, Croonan, spoke first, now, in answer,
and leisurely, too, as one who knew well that the man
they were after would gain nothing in the end by stopping
to parley here.

"It's meself that's afther gc'^' good n^son to wish
longer acquainten wid ye," said i. , in an easy way, and
not verv unkind, either.

" Tliat's not it. I wouldn' rini aw'y for that,'* said
Ladford. "I've sid the time — " he was going on as
if he saw the same time now ; but he checked himself
instanily. " I'll bide off fiom a quarrel, and I'll never
fight except to save myself, and then not harder nor
longer than what's aneedun. I've mvA enough o' quar-
Hillin' _"

" Oh ! ye're a precious light o' the jfospel, I suppose,"
interrupted Croonan's cx/mpanion. " Wh^n ye're done
pj'aching, ye'll be the better of sthi'efi^hing yer U-gs a bit,
in case ye'd be forgcttin' what to do wid thim, ^er tot»j^e
is that quick."

The former smuggler took Sm leave of fhem in /^te a
different tone : —

" I'm sorry ye want to hunt me down ; but I forgive
'ee," said he.

" We'll give you more rason for it, afther a bit, then,"
cried Froyne.

" Ah ! now," said one of the two hindmost men, speak-
ing in a restrained voice, as if afraid of being .overheard,
" don't be too hard upon a poor fellow ! "

458

TIIK iNKW I'KIKST.

" I'vo 110 ixridw nijainst tlio mail,"' said C^-ooiiati, wlioso
heart was not u had one, " iior I don't wish to crowd iiiii.
Give imi a chaiu'c, Froyiu', as Mistlicr Dug'iia axiii yc."

"Thank you lor your good will, Air. Dnjjjgan," said
tilt' 'milled man.

Ladlord now hegan again his descent with more alac-
rity ihan hclore ; and suddenly, when he had got within u
third of the di>lancc! to the end of the ledge, he set his
boat-hook out upon llu^ toj) of one of the rocks ihat stood
about half way helweeii him and the water, and lea[)cd
olK

"He's killing himself!" cried Froyne, who was fore-
most; and the two stojjped in their descent, to see him
fall among the rocks which filled about half the bottom of
the little amphitheatre on the west side. Of course it was
but a i'ew seconds, and then, instead of a dull cnish, came
a splash in the; water, which explained the manoMivre ;
with his long pole he had made such a Hying leap as had
saved liiin a minute or so of slow work.

" Now's your chance man ! Go on, Froyne ! " shouted
Croonan. " Give a lep with yer constable's stick, and
bale the boat-hook." Ihit the speaker himself was less in
a hurry. '" Asy, now, for your hilth,''said Mr. Duggan.

t^ Come on, then, and let's get him out o' the wather,
the great tom-cod that lu; is ! " said Froyne the constable,
(for so it was,) " till FU clap my ten claws upon um."

The constable ran down the path and scrambled, as fast
as might be, over the rocks, and Croonan followed ; but
long before they got half way over them, Ladfoi'd was in
his punt and sculling silently out, and with a little sail set
sus a hare sets its scut over its back, in its rac(^ lor ife.

"Thai's a game two can play at," eritnl Froyne, "and
»,wo"i make more nor wan at it, Fm thinking."

1, \vli(V-;i»
»\V(1 uin.
xiu yc."
n," said

>re

illllC-

wiiliin a
i set \m
lat stood
I losi[)ed

i^aa fore-
see him
otioin of
se it was
sli, came
nocLivre ;
,p as had

' shouted

k, and

OSS 111

[isl

piifjjgau.

oils
him.

atlier,
table,

il. as fast
hI; but
Id was in

V sai

I set

:ir.

lie

and

A STUANClKIl AITROACIIKS LADFOHD.

I.')!)

" Ay ! my b'y ! " said Croonau, at (ho same m()m<Mit,
" dt) ye lliink, h;<vu t we our own punt — ay, and the oars
locked in ? Sec, now, wasn't (hat the wise way ?"

The ('orc(> of two stroicj: men soon ur'rrd the boat off
into the water; and — itractised lisherman as Croonan, at
least, was — how Ion;:; was j)oor, sin^^h'-handcd Ladford —
if lie had been the best lioatman in Ncwibinidland — to
hold his own a.;^.iinst the two?

Their piHu'auiion had mad(> their oars secure ; for the
fu<2;itive had had no time to })i('k or pra(!tise upon h)cks ;
their sail was tl-ere all safe, and I hey were presently fol-
lowing.

As Frovnc seated himself at the bow-oar, whih' Croo-
nan took the other to scull, they both exclaimed, '' What
water's this ? "

" Arruiit we on the wrong sid(; iv the boat someway ? "
asked the constable.

"Ah! thin," said Croonan, " w<;'ve stove the boat
someway, that's what it is, wid g<'tliitg her into <he wa-
llier. Til' other side iv it 's not so dry as this, if ye'd
try it."

" Ah ! thin, it's me opinion tliat it's that i.irly oiild
blagyard has put his divil's hoof through it, or his boat-
hook, anny^ way."

'' No ! " said Ladford, who was within easy he; ig, " I

couldn' hav(} the heart to bivak a hole in the

lonest punt ; an

d I haven' juloncd it to she.

of
And he

kept steadily on his course towards Castle- Bay.

The two men in the other boat were in troubl. ; but all
the while Croonan kept his oar working instii tively.

" Where's this it is? " iiKpiired Croonan. I think it's
the plug is started; whativer made me have one in it
at all ? "

ilS.,

400

THE NEW rRh.ST.

*: f

Wj 1

i? M M

. .■:. i

" Whativer's started," said the landsman, " I'm thinkin
there'll be small odds beehux the inside and the outside iv
it, shortly, and it's meself would sooner swim in clear wa-
thcr. Can't we lift the boat someway ? "

" Can't ye swim and pussh the boat ? " cried Mr. Dug-
gan, (still not over loud,) as he and his companion
laughed at the expedition.

" Can't you put your fut on it ? " called Croonan. " Put
yer bi^ fut over the hole ! "

" Sure, can I put my fut down on the summit o' the
say ? Do ye think is my leg long enough ? " inquired
the constable. " Do ye now ? An' that's what I'd have
to do, to keep it all out."

" Clap a tole-pin in, then, can't ye ? See, that's wan
that ye're rowing against," cried the fisherman.

" Indade, thin, and it's against my will that I'm rowin',
just ; and how will I find the hole, more nor the hole
iv the ocean, supposin' I could start the tall-pin, itself?"

" What'U we do at ahl, thin ? " said Croonan, again.
" Sure, we'll have to put back and stop it." The consta-
ble, mean time, in his effort at the thole-pin, had jerked
himself backward into a wet seat, with a splash.

" There's wan o' them 's taken good advice, anny way,"
said Mr. Duggan, laughing.

The constable rose up from his misadventure, and as-
sented to Croonan's proposal.

" Well, thin, I've nothin' to say agin goin' back, for it's
goin' to the botthom, y' are, kapin' on this way, just, an'
indade, I think there's small good in that, anny way, to-
wards bein' on dry land, and only washin' yer phiz now
and agen, wlien ye'd be the betther iv it."

Ladford kc'[)t sihnilly on, in the bright moonlight,
without a word or sound, except of the steady working

^IK

A STRANGER APrROACHES LADFORD.

4Gi

again.

>»

for it's
ist, an'
ray, to-
iz now

Inliglit,
lorking

of his oar, and sight and sound of him grew farther and
fainter.

" Qui(;k, thin ! an' we'll get some sorrt iv a plug, in a
jiffy," said Croonan, and they soon finished their short re-
turn voyage to the point of departure.

" I tiiink ye may eut up yer constahle's stick," sug-
gested i\lr. DugguM, ''an' make a ])lug off it."

Here, however, they staid ; for there was no stick of
any sort nearer than one of the little Hr-trees, and it was
some time before one of these could be got at ; and then
neither man had a knife in his pocket that wouhl cut very
readily ; and it was a long time, in the dark, before they
could do any thing ; and at length they gave it up.

" Will, thin," said Croonan, the good feeling of his na-
tion coming over him, and his countrymen's aversion to a
warrant, even in the hands of a man of the true religion,
" I don't owe um any gridge, now ; but yerself set me on,
Mike Froyne. I'm glad he's not goin' t • Ix' hung this
night, anny way."

" There's time enough, yei," said tlie constable.

" Come, come, then, man, and mix a little something
warrm wid the watther y' are afther takin'," said Mr.
Duggan, " an' tell us what ye would have done to um,
if ye'd got um."

There was a pretty litth; beach, that we have men-
tioned, occupying about half the back part of the bottom
of the amphitheatre ; on this little hide-away place they
left their punt, where it lay like something the water had
thrown in a corner, to play with at leisure. The men
mounted once more the path to the upper air, and de-
parted.

Higher up in the heavens, and higher, the moon
mounted; and here and there around, below, — as if they

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— lay, 'ooiiinp; u]> with bright thces, ('l\vU(-\!4 of the lair,
mild nijrht. 'Vhv s<>}V, whoso bosom WtWiV^ by night as
well as (lay, urgtnl \\\) its even nvvunmirs o\\ the ear.
All else was still.

FATHli^R DE lUili: DETERMINES. AND DEPAKTS. 4G3

CHAPTER L.

FATHER DE BUIE DETERMINES, AND DEPARTS.

I AYS hiul nfi;;iin passed hy ; mnn's minds were
fijvered as tlic lime for Father Nicholas's trial
dr(!\v near ; and he came, and went, and was seen
more than ever ; and [)eople eame to him.

The Roman Calhoiie j)ress was busy arguing ihat "the
whole thing was the oilspring of fanatieal {)rejudice ; there
was not one link connecting the history of the young girl
who had been lost with any Roman Catholic, after her
leaving her father's house ; and the notion of her having
been made awfiy with, by Roman Catholics, or carried off
by them, would be absurd, if it were not outrageous. As
well might it be said, in the case of the Protestant's
house that was blown down, at Carbonear, that the Cath-
olics had all got behind it, and puffed it down with their
breath."

The Government and the " Protestant Faction " were
" warned not to goad a peaceable peoi)le too far ; there
were limits beyond which patience ceased to be a virtue ;
and it might be found that the spirit of a united body,
long exasperated and trifled with, would suddenly rise, in
its maiestv, and visit the senseless ajr^rressors with terrifiG
retribution. If the last indignity — of confronting the
sacred character of a Catholic priest with ihat of a felon,

n,i^'

\i- ,.

464

THE NEW TRIES r.

1 1. 1'l

■I ■• i

!l ' I'

!i I

't;

I ' ,

■ I

pjinl()ii('<l for the purpose of tliis porsccMition — should bo
dared ; if it were iittcinpted to wash out the stains upon
that felon's is^ovy hands, to (it him to take part in these (h'hi-
bive forms of hiw, it might, too late, he found impossible
to make a people, — who, though loyal, almost to a fjiult,
had an intelligenec and (piiek pcM'ceplion of right, as well
as a ehivalrie sense of honor denied to the coarser Saxon,
— blindly a('ee|)t a monstrous, hideous wrong, though
labelled justice."

So ran the printcnl opinions of the journals, and so ran
the uttered words of many excited groups of men and
women, in the capital and in the; Hay; but ha[)pily the
public peac(! was more than ev(a' well kept. At the
sanu! time, as a measure of precaution, a detachment of
the Royal Newfoimdland compani(!s, to the number of
ninety men, was posted in 15ay-IIarbor, under the com-
mand of Major IJirnie. Mv. Wellon's life was said to be
in danger; but he was not harmed. There was no out-
break of any kind, and no injury to person or property.

Fatlier Nicholas was an object of more devout reve-
rence to the mass of those of his faith, many of whom
every day uncovered themsclvcfi, and went down on thciir
knees as he passed, much as they would have done to a
procession of the Host. To everybody he was an object
of morf» curiosity than ever, in the streets.

Father Terence neither meddled nor made with the
business ; but lived his quiet life as before. Another
thing lay far heavier on his honest heart.

Some time had passed since his last talk with Father
De Brie, when the latter came in again. 'I'his time his
manner wa^ rather timid and hesitating.

They talked (not very i-eadily) of different things; at
length the younger man said : —

ith the
.nother

inrs; at

FATHER DE BRIE DETERMINES, AND hEI'ARIS. 405

"I li.'ivo jjjivcii iniiiiy }i tliou«jflit to wliat ^on siiid tlio
other iii^ht, Fatlirr 'I'citikm'."

Father Terciu'e stiovt; to speak cheerily: " VV^as it
a])()Ut the old faith it was? — All ! it's jjfood \<> '^iva inunny
a thon^'lit to the old way," said he, not looking' u|i.

" What sort of faith was it St. Charles Horrdineo had?
and St. ('atharine SeiH'iisis and the like of fliem? Hadn't
they faith then? And when^'s St. Thomas and St. IJer-
nard ? and all those hless^Ml men in ihi; I^and of Saints —
that's Ireland I mean ; iirst and foremost St. Patrick,
and iheni's those thi'ee with Col at the he;iimiinj» o' them,
ColnmhkiHe, and Cohnnhamis, and Cohunlia, and St.
Malaehy, and St. Finian, and St. Ferj^ns, and St. Col-
nian, and — and tin; I'est o' them, in the early days of that
beantiful island, as {Wwk as cajxilin itself, if I'd nse a
fi^^^nre, not to speak of the ^reat St. Lawrence, of !ny
own name, — (ami family most likely,) — Arehhishop of
Dnhlin, and tru(; to his conntry a;^ain.->t King Henry that
time ? "

'Ihe good man's patrioti(! ardor had led him a litth; olF
from liis first train of thonght ; hut hrought u soliice very
much needed to his laboi-ing heai't. When he had finished
his kindling recitation, he looked at his companion with
an eye that sought sympathy of zeal and admiration ; hut
as he looked at the ahsoihed, earnest, lofty face of Father
Ignatius, the glow burned out like an unanswered beacon-
light, and he sank back into a despondc-nl recollection of
present circumstances, relieved jx'rhap- by a spiritual
companionship with the famous men, whose memory he
had summoned.

" F\ith(!r Terence," said the other at length, " if I speak
plainly, I know that I shall hurt your feedings, kind and
patient as you are ; but I cannot do otherwi e. The
•luesstion wiLh me is not of other people, l-ut oi myseli'.

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406

THE NKW PRIEST.

i-r .

l?,'i ■'

V ,'i

That one may hiivv) fuilh in Christ, out of the midst of
error held unwittingly I cannot douht ; God forbid ! But
teaching like this — * Ood has made two parts of Ill's
Kinydom ; kept the domain of Justice to Himself granted
that of Mercy to His Mother ! ' The Blessed Virgin to
be partner in robbing God ! Falsehood added to the
Creed, falsehood in worship, falsehood in practice, false-
hood in priest, falsehood in people ! "

The elder man shook his head as he ejaculated, —
" Sancta Virgo ! cunctas hcereses^ sola, interemisti* —
That's a long list then," added he, turning and speaking
sadly, "and a dangerous one to say. I'm astonished at
the spirit of ye ! And I thought ye'd leave the Creed
at the very least."

" The Creed, — but 1 speak of the additions made to it.
Oh ! Father Terence, the conviction is striving and strug-
gling in me for mastery. It is a conviction, that this
system is not of God. This strife within would kill me
if I could not still it. JNIary-worship, the forced Con-
fessional, Relics, Imng'.'s, Violation of Sacraments, Des-
potism, Superstition, j\Ien abusing the power and character
of the priesthood, unquestioned, people murderous, licen-
tious, and unimproved — nation after nation ! What it
has, of the best — ah ! it still has much — is in spite of —
or apart from — oh ! what lowering and misleading in-
fluences! For common morals: are others 'heretics,'
ungodly, loose? See what this Church does! ' 3Iar-
ri'ige, not to be hroken : eitlier party adidterous, if di-
vorced and married: ' the Pope annuls (for money) a
marriage f of years (in high rank) and dispenses, for new
marriage, elsewhere I Does God so ? Marriage within
Degrees, Incest : the Pope dis[)enses : uncle marries

!E» >■

* Holy Virj^in! all heresies, alone thou hast destroyed.

t Lately, Lady ^lary Hamiltoirs, with the Prince of Monaco. — 1889.

Qidst of
1! But
of His
granted
iriiin to
1 to the
;e, false-

tisti* —
ipeaking
lished at
le Creed

ide to it.
id Strug-
that this
kill me
led Con-
its, Des-
haracter
us, liceu-
What it
Dite of —
idiiig ill-
heretics,'
* Mar-
s, if di-
Qoney) a
, for new
rje within
marries

aco.

-1889.

,,y

FATHKR D1-: BUIE DETERMINES, AND DEPARTS. 407

niece*: — or worse! (This for princes and tliousands of
pounds.) Is this lying? "

The speaker paced the floor in the most intense excite-
ment, turning to this side and that, as lie uttered these
questions, as if he looked across the world and called tor
aiis^'^er. !Stop[»ing suddenly in front of tiie elder priest,
who with a troubled i'ace was looking on the floor, he
exclaimed, —

" Is it NOT so ? One word of the Biblo I — one word
of Holy Scripture ! One word for images ! One word for
prayer to Saints ! One word for Mary's Kingdom or
Empire of Grace ! One word for Purgatory ! One word
for our awful takinjr of men's souls out of their bodies
and standing accountable for them ! Has any part of the
whole fabric any authority or countenance in the Word
of God? Or in history, for ag !S and ages? Which one
of the old Fathers writing about their religion, defending
it, explaining it, has one word ? Which one of the old
Liturgies? Where was the Church like this at first?
Oh ! I was in the Catholic Church ! I had all truth ! "

He paced the room again, his companion being silent.

" If this is not true, what is it ? and what am I ? " he
exclaimed again, holding up his clasped hands. He then
sank upon his knees, and remained for a while in prayer.

On rising, with his eyes lull of tears, he saw that
Father Terence was engaged in the same way, and when
the old man h.id ended his holy occupation, the younger
grasped his hand and thanked him heartily.

" Forgive me. Father Terence," he said, " if I have
shocked you. It is no excuse that I have torn the flesh
of my own soul, in the struggle that is going on in me ; I
have no right, because / siifler, to make others suffer
also; but it will be excuse for me with you, that there

* Lately, the King of Italy's brother to his Hoiiaparte niece. — 188^.

468

THE NEW PRIEST.

'tm

! I

has been and is no feeling in me towards yourself, but
one of love and honor."

" Say nothing of it," said the kindly elder, but in the
saddest way, " I care nothing for my own feelings ; but
I do care to see ye going the way y'are. Is there no
help for ye ? "

Evening was near ; the day was drawing off, and night
had not yet set her watch; but while the silent shades
were coming in and taking up their places in the inner
and farther parts of the room, and seemed to be throwing
a dark and mournful tinge upon the very spoken words
as well as on the walls and furniture, gradually a bright-
ness broke on the far off hills, as if through a rift in a
leaden sky. Father O'Toole was last to have his eyes
drawn aside in that direction.

The younger had caught its earliest ray, and had his
eyes fixed upon it.

" Oh yes, there is help for me in my God," answered
he. " You do forgive me ? "

" Oh ! then, what have I against ye ? Sure it's not
worth the while me bringing in my own small matters of
feelings betwixt you and Ilim."

As Father O'Toole said this, Father De Brie thanked
him more heartily than before ; then bade him " Good-
bye ! "

" Stay then ! " said the older Priest, " are ye sure isn't
it something about the wife and the world, it is, now ? "

He asked this in a tone of sorrowful doubt ; the shad-
ows of the evening, which was drawing on, clothing his
plain, kindly features with a softening shade. The room
in which they were grew darker. Mr. De Brie an-
swered : —

" I'm sure that it was no regret or desire for happiness,

FATHER DK VAilE DETERMINES, AND DEPARTS. 469

urself, but

but in the

lings; but

there no

and night
;nt shades

the inner
! throwing
ken worda
r a bright-
i rift in a
e his eyes

td had his

answered

ire it's not
natters of

e thanked
a "Good-
sure isn't
now?"
the shad-
Dthing his
The room
Brie an-

lappiness,

or desire for old associations in the world : — that I am
Bure of; — but it was under God my wife's true love, and
her strong woman's faith and the straightforward reason-
ings of her woman's conscience, that conquered me ; — and
a sense of my forsaken duty ! " (He took a turn in the
room and came back ; the old priest sitting deeply agi-
tated and breatiiing hard.) " It was the homely speech
of a fisherman that first brought me face to face with the
question : of this Skipper George, whose daughter has
been stolen, — or lost. A child's tongue carried on the
argument. Pater, Domine cceli et (errce, abscondisti hac
a sapietitibus et prudetitibus, et revelasti parvulis" *

" Oh ! " said Father Terence, hoarsely and brokenly,
" don't be unpriested and cast out ! — ^on't, for the love
of God!"

In a low voice to himself, he said : —

"Ah ! if I'd taken heed to um that time when he
wanted to speak to me about her being there ! "

He sat as if ready to wheel round his chair away from
his companion.

" Ay, Father Terence," said the latter, in a voice of
great feeling; "you don't know what the loss of your
love would be to me."

The old Priest turned away ; but as he turned, said, in
a low voice, —

" Ah ! my son ! how will I ever take that from ye,
more than a father will forget his child, — whatever hap-
pens him ? "

" I shall never forget you ! — but why do I linger?
— Father Terence, I shall give this up. Yes, I shall
give this up ! and then, if I must go through every terri-
ble ordeal of scorn, and hatred, and loathing. — must be
hunted by the fury of my brethren in the priesthood,—

* St. Matt. xi. 25.

t i! I

470

THE NKW PKIKST.

IM--

i> ) ,

m.isf hnvo my |»nrstly character torn oft' mo, bit by l)if,

— \\\o loMsiirc ri\7A>il — my n.'imo |)iit out in (Mirsiii^, I

am n'july. To mo il comos in fho w.-iy of (hi(y to uwvl
ami boar tli(« worst. The soldier is (hnist (broii^r|,, .„i(l
manjrl,.,!. aixl tratnpIcMl, still liviiiir, under borscs' feet, and
till bis blood and bre.itb be spent, still i^lories in tbe
(•aus«» for wliieb Iw sullers. T sball not <'onrt suflerin^r or
sbame, but if tbey come, witb (Jod's belp I can bear
Ibem!"

" Tbey don't do tbat way witli priests, now," said Fa-
thvr Teivnee, wbo sat wilb bis back still turned, and
spoke as if be seareely tbougbt of wbat bo said. "Tb«
worst is publisbinuc from tbo altar, in every cburcb ; but
ye'll never eonie to tbat."

"Yes, it must oome. You spoke of tbc old way: l'
sball jro back to il, — from ibis day my plaoe is empty ! "

IIo kneeled <lown at tbo side of tbe old Priest, and
bowed bis bead, and was, at lirst, silent for a wbile, tlien
said, —

" If r bavo ever lun-t your feelin;;s, Fatber Terence,
in any tiling but tins, I ask your pardon, bumbly ;" (tbe
old man eouid not vspeak ; his voiee was eboked) — "and
now I go. I left f/i<' better way ; I go back I "

Tbe younger j>riest rose slowly from bis knees, tben,
grjLsping tbe other's band, pressed it; and walking softly
to th(^ door, departtvl.

" Slay ! Slay I " was called afler bim, but be did not
turn.

lie mounted bis horse at tbe gate, and rode rapidly
tbrougb tbe town u[) toward the river-bead. An liour
later be knocked at Mr. AVellon's door.

" Could you give so much time and trouble to me as
to go down wilb me a little way ? " be said, after a hur-
ried salutation.

KATIIKR l)i; UUIK DK TK UMIXKS, AND DKPAUTS. .171

then,
softly

apidly
hour

The dorjiyninn iitonco comi)!!*'!!, ji-kiii;; no qmsiious ;
fop ho ini;j;hl hiivo s(M!H how occiipioil the othrr was. So
lUi\ (wo walked lo^^cthi-r silciilly ; and proplo silently
h)oU<Ml at thcni and looked afler them.

It was not far to Mrs. llanv's honse ; and Father Do
lirie led the way slrai;;hl to it. All was .silent there; and
when ho had knocked, and for a inoinent no one canu;, ho
turned to his companion anxiously and said, *' She is not
sick ? "

TliO English servant camo to tluj door, and, seeing wIjo
was there, eould scarcely speak or move.

They stood in lh<^ littK; parlor to which tlicy were
shown ; and thoufjjh Father J)el)ree did not ehanj^e his
place, yet his eyes turned sh)wly from one of the j)retty
little articles of woman's taste to another, and quietly
filled with tears. Presently a hurri<'d and m»e(pial step
was heard from the chaml)er overhead, down the stairs,
and Mrs. Harre, in her black dress, pale and trembling,
not lifting up her vyvt^, stood in the room. Young as she
was, her dark hair had begun to havi; a gloss upon it
(perhaps a glory) that di<l not come of years.

She had not felt the breath of that cold air,

Tho chill, chill wiiul from o'er the graves
And from the cold, dam|) tomb;
Tho wind that frosts the hair it waves,
And pales the cheek's tVesh bloom ;
That bitter wind that we must face
When down life's hill we go apace,
And evening spreads its gloom; —

That liad not breathed upon her.

" Mr. Wellon ! I call you to witness, before God," said
Father De Brie, "that I pray the forgiveness of this
blessed, blessed woman ; whom I may not call my wife,
for I forsook her ! "

472

THE NEW PRIEST.

''-■i

■jiiKj,:

i U\ ■

S 1 ■ .

n ■ ■

/^ :,1

Bf'foro thn words were done, a sudden burst of life
nnd love seemed to fill up the room ; there was a little
r.ish of gentlen«'ss, and Oii ! a warm, trembling arm went
round his neck ; a tender forehead was bowed down U{)on
his shoulder ; a sweet, low murmuring was felt against
his heart, and scarcely heard —

'' You are my own, own husband ! "

"What was there in the world to them beside each
other in that loni; moment ? Their tears flowed down
together ; and then he ilrew back a little, and with two
hurried hands smoothed away, more than once, to either
side, the hair from tiuit wife's forehead ; then drew her to
his bosom, that had not felt such dearness for so long,
kissed her true lips, and said —

" If ever God gave treasure to a man unworthy, it was
here ! My wife ! My wife ! "

After another silence, he said, turning to the friendly
clergyman, —

" J may open my heart to God before you ? " — and
they kneeled down, and at first without speech, then in
low, broken bursts, ana tl^f:^ in a full stream of molten
music \ie poured forth prayer for the forgiveness of the
Prodigal, who had wandered in a far, strange country,
and fed on husks ; for blessing on that dear woman, and
on all people. Other voices, — of his wife ; of the Eng-
lish priest, whose nature was so strong and regular, —
inarticulate, but expressing feeling irrepressible, from
time to time rose and fell with his.

Little Mary, wondering, still and tearless, came and
stole in between the two whose child she was ; and in his
prayer her father put his arm about her.

The words of that prayer could not be written down
by hand ; the spirit only could go along with them.

f.;'

'9t of IHe
is a little
arm went
own upon
rlt agiiinsi

;side each
wiiil down
I with two
, to either
rew her to
ir so long,

rthy, it was

he friendly

)u?"— and
3h, then in

of molten
less of the
ye country,

onian, and
the Eng-

rcgular, —

ible, from

came and
and in his

tten down
vith them.

FATIU: II l)K BRIF. DETKHMIXKS, AND DK I'AUTS. 473

P<'rha|):^ they have been written somewhere. Then,
cahnly, v/lifu they stood u;), he said : — •

*' Now, Ilt'lcn, shall I liiiish this unfinished work, for
which you have so louff been praying, before 1 join my
life with yours again ? Shall I first go to the chief INIin-
ister,* and jiublicly recant my error and profess my faith?
Th«'i .1 schooner going from New-Harbor."

" 'j .)u won't go now, will you?" asked the clergyman,
who had no ties of marriage*.

The wife who for so long had had no husband, — the
woman whose strong love had been put away from its
own proper, sat^red object, to whom she was Jlesh of his
fles/i, and hune of his bom;, — her own loved, her own
wedded, her own lost, — looked up at once and answered,
« Yes, if you will— I'll wait."

He held her close to his heart awhile, then parted from
her tenderly, and went away v.^ith Mr. Wellon. Early
next day they started together for New-Harbor.

♦ Newfoundland, in that day, was attached to the Diocese of Nova
Scotia; the Bishop lived at Halifax.

-171

TH'<' NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER LI.

THE TRIAL.

'It,

t: '

|OURT-DAY drew near, and public interest in-
creased accordingly. The speculation of the
public was abundant, — the more so for the
mystery that clothed the government case. It was said
that Mrs. Calloran had been discharged, for want of evi-
dence to show any thing ;ig;iiiist her. Violent partisans
everywhere reported that siie had been llrsc tampered with
to turn King's evidence; but had refused "to go nigb
wan o' their courts to testify, as they call it, good or bad ;
no, not if they take the life of me itself." What there
might be against the Priest, no man could say ; but it was
generally affirmed, by those of his own religion, that the
government would break down at the trial.

The reader need not be reminded what excitement
there must have been in Peterport, and generally among
the population. The Stipendiary, Mr. Naughton, (who
knew something of the inner things of law,) assured Mr.
Wellon, " They'll never be able to convict him, sir ; "
but many plain people said, " They've murdered her, too ;
and they ought to be hunix for it."

Ladford, meantime, (for so we call him still,) was not
at home. He had sent a short note to Mr. Wellon from
Castle-Bay, from which it appeared that it had been

,M , :

TIIK TRIAL.

475

;erest in-

1 of the

for the

was said

it of evi-

partisans

ui'cd with

go nigb

or bad ;

lat there

ut it was

, that the

ccitement
ly among
m, (who
ured Mr.
m, sir ; "
her, too ;

I was not
lion from
ad been

made necessary for the poor man to hide again, but that
he would be heard from wiien lie was needed; and .Nince
that time no word iiad eomc from him. His pardon was
all ready for him, but he did not come.

Up to the last day, — up to the last moment of the day
before the one appointed, he was looked for, but he did
not eonie ; and there were no certain tidings from him.
The nearest approach that could be made to him was
this: In New-Harbor there had been a man called
Lane, and there supposed to be a deserter from a man-of-
war, — otherwise answering to the description of Ladfbrd,
— he had shipped, with others, in the schooner Ice-
Blink, for a short trip along shore, and the schooner
had not since been heard from ; and great fears were
felt for her. Some p(;ople sternly said tljat God's
judgment had come d jwn upon him ; others again
began to mutter that he had had foul play. Meantime,
80 great was the excitement, and so strong was the pub-
lic pressure, that it would not iiave been safe to have ad-
journed the trial. " It was thought best " (the Attorney-
general told Mr. Wellon) " to call the case on^ and if, at
the last moment, the chief witness did not come, then the
crown-counsel should throw it up, in open court. If the
priest were convicted on this charge, he would be safe
foi" a trial for murder, when that body should he found"

In the late evening came intelligence from a vessel just
arrived in St. John's, that she had passed outside a brig
having the Ice-Blink's crew on board.

The morning of the Fifteenth opened clear and bright ;
the day went clearly and brightly on ; but such was the
excitement and occupation of the town tha* few could
have heeded the face of the fair sky.

The judges (Chief Justice and the two Assistants) had

.470

THE NKW PllIEST.

1 1

^. i ■

boon punctual to the day, and were all here. "Whoever
knows the trmnpeters and javrlin-mt'U of the English
Circuit, and tiic tremendous authority of the IJeneii, and
h)ng array of learned and practised members of the liar,
must change his notions to adapt them here. There was
as good a clianct; of getting justice here, however, as any
where in England.

A lai'ge storehouse, — furnished with two long deal
tables, lor the judges and lawyers, respectively ; with
mahogany chairs for the former; such as couhl be had
for the latter ; and, for the public, benches and boxes, as
far as they could go, — served for the court-room ; — and
there was Father Nicholas Crampton, and Mrs. Uridget
Calloran, also, in the custody of the officer, to stand their
trial. — Skipper George was not present ; Father Terence
sat there, grave and jjerplexed-looking ; and not far from
him sat Mr. Wellon, thoughtful and anxious, and looking
often to the door.

Proclamation was made; commissions read; all formal
ceremonies, (considerably abridged in number and amount
from the " home "-standard,) tediously gone through with ;
lengthened, perhaps, purposely, in the doing; for the rest
of the day nothing was done but filling up the panel of
the jury; there WiH no challenge to the array or to the
polls, by the accused or by Government ; then the court
adjourned to the next day.

Next morning news came at last to Mr. Wellon and to
the Attorney-General, that the brig with the Ice-Blink's
men on board was signalled off the Narrows. Their
hearts were lightened. A boat with a stout crew and an
intelligent messenger was sent across the bay to bring
Ladford, if he were there.

The Attorney-General opened for the Crown ; the atten-

l| ■^:

THE TKIAL.

477

Hioever
Knglish
u'lt, and
he IJiir,
lere was
, as any

ng deal
y ; with

be had
»oxes, as
II ; — and

liridget
md their
Terence
far from

looking

P formal
amount
li with ;
the rest
anel of
to the
le court

and to
Blink's
Their
and an
bring

e atten-

tion of the throe or four iiundred people witliin the walls
of the Court room was very closely iield ; and, every now
and then, a sympathetic heave or swell seemed to be com-
inunieated, (witiiout any manitest connection,) from the
mueh larger multitude without; as the swell of the far-
away sea pulses in one of tho>e iidand pools in the
southern islands; — but there was no disturbance. Within,
appartMitly two thirds of the people were Protestants ;
without, the greater part Roman Catholics. The orderly
spirit was, perhaps, encouraged by the known and evident
provision of soldiers and of special constables, that, to the
number of seventy, had been sworn in ffom different
parts of the Bay.

Mrs. Calloran looked frequently sit Father Nicholas,
being herself much excited ; he always sat quietly, only
sometimes looking a little impatient, or smiling slightly,
and almost sneering, at some parts of the argument of
the counsel.

Father Crampton begged leave to say " that he would
not waste the time of the Court, or put the counsel for the
Crown to trouble, to prove the fact of Miss Barbury's
being missing ; he admittcnl it ; he had no doubt of it.
Nor would he require that it should be proven that she
disappeared on the afternoon or evening of the fifteenth
day of August at the time charged by the Government
from that point he should deal with the witnesses as they
were called on."

When Mr. Urston and James were called, successively,
to show that Father Crampton had expressed himself
strongly disappointed and displeased, he not only made no
use of the witnesses, after the Government had done with
them, but admitted, freely, the substance of the expres-
sions and the character of his own feelings, with a frank-

^«

^*!

;>*

478

'^HE NEW PRIEST.

ness that very likelj' iiad a favorable influence upon the
jury. It was understood that Mrs. Barre was to be
called to testify to some passages in the priest's former
life ; and as her story was now pretty generally known,
there was, doubtless, abundant anxiety in those present.
This would explain the interest manifested by the specta-
tors in such ladies as were there watching the progress
of the trial ; but whatever were the method intended by
the Attorney-General, she was not summoned, at least in
the earlier stages of the proceeding ; nor was a certain
Englishman, accidentally arrived a few weeks before, who,
it was said, had recognized Father Crampton as one who
had been guilty of crime, elsewhere.

So the witnesses succeeded each other in procession
quiet and orderly, with slight interruption. In declining
to ask Jesse Barbury any questions, the Priest said that
he had no wish nor interest to contradict or meddle with
his testimony ; at which a flush of bashful pride went
over Jesse's honest face, (and, no douot, over Isaac Maf-
fen's) ; and the witness ventured a glance, of his own
accord, at the Attorney-General, as if Jesse felt that time
and skill had been well bestowed in drawing out evidence,
which, when drawn out, stood thus unimpeachable.

The Attorney- General did not hurry himself or his
witP'^ ._ ; but Father Crampton let them go unques-
tioned, and so did Mrs. Calloran's counsel, as if they
acted in concert. The first change of proceeding was
with Mr. Bangs. In his direct examination, whose re-
dundancy the learned prosecutor was at no pains to check,
he gave an account of his seeing tlie woman carried down
from Mr. Urston's by two others. Mr. Wellon described
the finding of the cap, and identified the one produced.
Mrs. Barbury swore that it was her daughter's. Gilpin

upon the
vas to be
t's former
ly known,
e present,
he specta-
3 progress
tended by
it least in

a certain
fore, who,
} one who

irocession
declining
said that
iddle with
ride went
tsaac Muf-

his own
that time
evidence,
le.
}lf or his

unques-
3 if they
ding was
vhose re-
to check,
ied down
described
aroduced.
Gilpin

THE TRIAL.

479

gave his account of the prayer-book, and of Mrs. Callo-
ran's and Father Crampton's suspicious conduct in regard
to it. Then Captain Nolesworth deposition was put in,
without question from the accused. Then Mr. Bangs was
recalled, and described his visit to the Nunnery ; — how
" he went in, 'th the holy priest, there, an' saw all about
it, an' where they took their meals," and so forth ; — with
which, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion, both the
court and others seemed to be amused. After the Govern-
ment had done with him, Father Crampton, premising
that he was no lawyer, and begging that the answers
might be as short and plain as possible, asked him whether
he had been invited to go in. " I undertook to go in, o'
myself, first, I guess," said Mr. Bangs, " an' then you
come along, an' finally, you concluded to take me in, I
b'lieve." " Did I invite you to the room where the
sick person was ? " " Wall, I guess ye did, sir." " Did
I make any difference between that and the rest ? " "I
dono's ye did." " Do you know that I did not ? " "I
guess ye didn't." " Did I seem at all afraid, in show-
ing you that room ? " "I guess ye didn't." " Did I
hurry you away from it ? " '' No, sir ; I can't say's ye
did ; only when the holy virgins, there, or what not,
snickered out at my hat, I s'pose ye was ruther put out."
" But did I show any anxiety ? or did I hurry you
away ? " " No, sir." " That will do, sir," said Father
Nicholas, " it is to be observed that that was the room in
which the girl lay whom I am charged with having kid-
napped."

Ladford did not come ; the Attornev-General appeared
anxious. He said that an important witness for Govern-
ment had not arrived, though constantly expected ; it was
very embarrassing, as that witness could testify to the

480

THE NEW PRIEST.

t' ^

actual prcsoncc of I\Iiss Barbiuy in the Nunnery, and in
that room in which the siciv younj; woman was seen ; but
he would go on, expecting to su})ply the dehciency very
soon.

Gilpin was recalh'd, and gave his evidence about the
conversation overheard. Jn the cross-examination, Father
Nicholas asked him : " Did you not say ihat I distinctly
spoke of Lucy Barbury as ' gone ? ' " "I iieard her name ;
and I heard you sj>(>ak of some one as ' gone.' " " Can
you swear that I said that she was gone in any way ex-
cept as having disap])eared ? Think well of it." " No,
sir." " Well : did you hear me speak of any one else, in
that conversation?" "I think I did: you both s})()ke
about somebody that had be(>n confessing to Father De-
bree." " Man or woman ? " " AVoman." " Did you
understand that to be Miss Barbury ? " "No, sir ; I un-
derstood it was Mrs. Barre." " And can you swear that
that was not the person I said was gone ? " " No, sir, I
cannot." " That will do, sir."

Sister Theresa was next called to the stand ; but before
her examination had begun, a disturbance outside and at
the door of the Court-room dn^w all attention to th'-.t side.
The name of " Lane " was heard ; the Attorney-General
became agitated, but looked suddenly hopeful. The ofR-
cers of the Court had gathered immediately toward the
door. Father Nicholas east a (piick glance that way ; and
Mr. Wellon looked, very engerly.

" There's no Ladford there," said the latter, forgetting
himself, and thinking aloud. Then, presently recalled by
the many faces turned to him, lu; Iwwed to the Court by
way of a])ology. Tiie Attorn(»y-General, who had looked
to him, like the rest, still waited, without questioning the
nun who had been called on, and requested her to be seated.

■m

THE TRIAL.

481

and in
n ; but
;y very

»out (he
Fathor
stiiK'tly
r name ;
" Can
kvay ex-
" No,
else, in
h spoke
tier De-
)id you
• ; I un-
ear that
[o, sir, I

it before

i and at

.t side.

General

he offi-

ard the

ly ; and

r«];ctting
ailed by
ourt by

looked
ling the

seated.

" We hope," said he to the Court, " to be able to put
our witness on the stand in a few moments, if the Court
will be pleased to iiululge us ; 1 see the messenger who
was sent tor him."

The ollieers quieted all but the indefinite motion and
Bound that show tlu; excited state of a crowd, and made
way ibr one of scneral men who had got within the
door. The counsel for the Crown were, for a while, in
close conversation with him; a new sensation pas8(!d over
the crowd; and then the Covernment said that "infor-
mation had been just received which satisfied them that
Warrener Lane, the witness for whom they had been
locking, had |)erishe(l, while engagcid in an honorable
mission of charity, respected by his comrades, and in the
faith and jxMiitence of a Cinistian man. It was, there-
fore, out of their power to put his testimony into the case,
and they must do without it."

A new sensation passed over the crowd ; and something
like a shout wiis heard on the outside of the building.
Father Crampton almost smih^l, and lifted up his eyes,
apparently in a momentary thanksgiving.

The Government did not throw up the case. The
Attorney-General simply and gravely expressed his re-
gret at the loss of so important evi(lenc<', and at the death
of the man, though it was in an honorable cause. The
other witnesses were called, after Sister Theresa ; and the
evidence of flu; officers who had searched for the missing
nuns and boatmen, showed that not one of these could be
traced. Father Crampton asked no questions ; leaving
it, as he said, to the Court to show the jury that this
testimony did not, in any way, touch him.

All evidence touching the priest's character, save in

'"I

482

THE NKVV rUIEST.

RliliJI

U^ >'

«>

te'iii

J .1

(he one point of his being Hkely to have committed thia
crime, was ruled out.

The Chief Justice summed up and commented upon the
testimony wisely and fairly ; when lui had done, Father
Crampton bowed dignifiedly to the court.

When the case was given to the jury, a leading bar-
rister leaned over and whis|)ered to the solicitor-general,
"They won't leave their seats."

The jury withdrew, however, and were out about
twenty miniites, when they came in with a verdict of
*' Not guilty."

The j)riest rose, and bowing gravely, as before, with-
drew. Mrs. Calloran shook her petticoats, and turning
indignantly to the 15ench, said : —

" Sure, didn't 1 know that before, without three jidges
an' twelve juries to tell it me ? An' who'll get satisfaction
for me lying in prison ? "

An otficer laid hold of her, and hurried her away, to
the freedom of the open air, lest she should be committed
for contempt.

Froi.i the street came a sound significant of popular
excitement.

It was impossible for Father Nicholas, if he had
wished it, to get rid of all the different demonstrations
in which the excited spirit of his fellow-religionists broke
forth af\er his discharge from custody. He had no car-
riage to be dragged ; nor what would have become the
habits of the country better, boat to be towed ; but as he
walked along the street, the men walked in ranks of four
or five abreast, before and behind, and in the roadway at
his side ; and women, less orderly, were mingled among
them. Green badges of fir, and spruce twigs, and here
mnd there of shamrock, indicative of birth in the Emerald

1 ; ■

,cd this

>on tho
Father

ig bar-
jeneral,

; about
diet of

e, with-
turning

e jidges
isfaction

iway, to
mmitted

popular

he had
;tration3
s broke
no car-
)nie the
ut as he
of four
way at
among
nd here
iLnierald

THE TRIAL.

48n

Isle, soon made their appearance, marshals of the i)roees-
sion decorated and distinguished by suspc^nders outside of
thciir clothes, presently were conspicuous ; and so, with
heavy, martial tramp, and fii^rce looks, (a few of llieni giv-
ing groans before one or two houses of obnoxious persons,)
the crowd escorted Father Nicholas Cram{)ton up to the
Mission })remises, while the marshals got into everybody's
way, and made themselves very hot, ordering and gestic-
ulating.

One woman was very active and prominent in the
demonstration about the priest. Upon her they presently
laid hands, and placed her in the midst, and escorted her
also. This was INIrs. Calloran, who had at first been for-
gotten. When she had thus found her pro[)er [)lace, she
trudged on, less noisy though not less earnest than before.

No let or hinderance was offered to this crowd ; the sol-
diers were kept out of sight ; the special constables were
not put forward, and the rest of the people did not come
in the way. At the gate F^vther Nicholas dismissed them
with a few words.

" They had had provocation," he said, " that would have
driven a less patient and orderly people to violence. They
had, also, the power to sweep the arrogant contemners of
their most holy religion into nothing. He was a minister
of peace, and though he knew that in the sight of men
they would be excused, and, in the sight of God, they
would be justified, if they were to show a sense of their
wrongs, yet he must counsel them to wait patiently for
the day in which they would at length have full justice."

Then the marshals and others, with much brandishing
of their arms, got the multitude to their knees, much as if
they had mowed them down ; and while some wiped their
faces, and some brushed their clothes, and some continued

48 i

TIIK NKW rruKST.

*^ '. i

cortnin alN'rcvtions with fh(>ir niMfjlibors, as (ho way of
crowds is. Father Crniuptoii bicssc'd thrin.

Thry h.'ul hrirnn slowly to hrcak up into stn.ill coinna-
nies, not kiiowinsx oxacllv whjit to «lo with thiMnsclvcs,
when Fnthcr TcnMin^ caiur, inakin;i; his way homo,
throuixlj th(» nii«lsf of (hem. Very many of tho hit(*
enthusiasts, oti bcooining uwaro of his presonco, looked
rather sheepish.

He addressed himself to diffen'tit little }^athenn«!;s, aa
he pass(Hl by, exhortin_sj; them to " ^o home, now, and
show tlu* way Irishmen could be (juiet." There wero
some who obj(»cted that " it was not just the thing to be
quite, till theyM jjot th(» life tramped out o' them;" but
Father TereiuM>, by askiuij; who wa,s trampinp; the life out
of them, and biddinj:!; them not to "be talkinj; nonsense,
that way," convinced by far the p^reater number, and sent
them to their homes. The remainder soon disappeared,
and the town wiis quiet.

y--

iftiii

THE LAST OF LADFORD.

Asrt

CIIAl'TKR LII.

TlIK LAST OF LADFOUD.

j^IIILTO tho counsel lin^crod talkinpf in the court

room, al'tiM* tlio witlulrjivval of tlio jnd^ciH, At-
tonioy-dcncral Kay, leaving his [lapcfPH ami
other matters in the hands of his ch'riv, proposiMl to
ISlr. WcHon a walk ; an invitation which the ch-rgynian
readily a('<'e|)t('d.

In passinfjj out, tlie lawyer heekoned to Lan(;'s ship-
mate, who ha<l eouK; from Si. John's with the messenger;
and, as they went, they listened to the story of the last of
liadford ; whieh, in sncdi shai)e as that it shall be best
understood, (though not in tlu; man's words,) we give the
reader.

Where Trinity and Flacentia Bays cut nearly through
the Island, the distance across the tongue of land, in the
narrowest part, is only three or four miles, wdiile the
nearest way by water is souk; three himdred ; yet, so hard
is the crossing, and so much more used are our Newfound-
landers to going afloat than afoot, that all traffic and travel
in that day, took the sea-passag(% — perhaps, still do so.

There is a town, Placentia, once — in its French days
— far more important than now ; and, even in the time of
our story, having a good deal of stir of business. Several
Bchooners lay in the harbor, and one — the Ice-Blink — was

48r,

THE NEW PRIEST.

hi- 'J. !

being pretty briskly fitted out for sea ; a dozen men or so
being engaged in caulking, and painting, taughtening
rigging, and sera[)ing down and slushing masts. The
Aghs anti'j r fe 'Stiuulion "was to St. John's, but she was
temporarily to go up the coast toward Cape Ray, to relieve
the people of a Quebec emigrant- ship, wrecked some-
where near La Poile.

During this time, a man made his appearance in Pla-
centia, giving his name as Lane, and supposed by the
people there to be a deserter from the man-of-war on the
station, — the Surinam. His ways were strange; he
" studied," as they said, a good deal ; read his little Bible
and Prayer-book much ; was quiet, and had such " old-
fashioned ways " as to raise a laugh now and then at first ;
but, at length, was found to know so much, and to be so
handy, thct, in three days' tim'^, he was not only a valued
hand at the schooner, but was ir that sort of esteem that
he was put at the sculling-oar waen he went with others
up the Bay, or outside. This was our man, Ladford.

On the vhole, though some thought " 'e wasn* gezac'ly
right, mubbe," yet a general deference towards him began
to establish itself. If he was " somew'y strange," in the
eyes of the crew with whom he was just brought together,
yet they saw, at ance, that he was a " proper knowledge-
able man," and they accordingly thought his strangeness
to arise from the possession of special spiritual gifts, con-
nected with his abstraction and study of the Word of God.
It was asserted, indeed, that a very ugly look had been
seen in his face ; but, as his uniform expression was very
sad, and his manner was uniformly gentle, this assertion
was swallowed up and lost sight of, in the general impres-
sion of his character ; one which was diffused everywhere
by those public carriers, the children, and prevailed to

en or so
jhtening
. I'he
>ho wjis
) relieve
i some-

in Pla-

I by the

r on the

ige ; he

,le Bible

ch " old-

at first ;

to be so

a valued

iem that

li others

lord.

gezac'ly

n began

in the

ogether,

(wledge-

mgeness

\s, con-

of God.

id been

'^as very

ssertion

impres-

ywhere

ailed to

THE LAST OF LADFORD.

487

Bome extent, also, among the Roman Catholics, who are
the great part of the population of Placentia.

The wind does not always blow from the same quarter,
and it changed, after a couple of days, for the waiters in
Great Placentia Harbor, and came in from something
south of east. The moment that it was settled that the
breeze would hold, the " Ice-Blink " got herself ready to
start, with sails filling and flapj)ing, and streamer, and
pennon, and house-flag, and union-jack, all flaunting gayly
in the wind. Shortly before casting off from the stage,
another circumstance gave occasion to reii^ark, and added
to the mystery of Ladford's character. He had somehow
set his mind on taking along with them, in the schooner,
a very large punt that he had used a good deal in the
Bay ; and, at this last moment, he seemed so earnest for
it, that it was determined to take the boat, although, as
had been objected to him, it lumbered up the deck greatly.
So it was got on board to his satisfaction.

A musket was fired from the schooner, and the " Ice-
Blink " gallantly lei't the stage. It was a pleasant after-
noon, and all things seemed to conspire to help them for-
ward, — weather, and wind, and tide, — and these Placentia
men know the way, and the headlands, and islands, and
harbors along the way, as a Londoner knows the Strand,
and Temple-Bar, and St. Paul's Cathedral ; or an Edin-
burgh man. Prince's Street, and the North Loch, and the
Castle. It is a dangerous coast to strangers. The rocks
near Cape Race have caught many a ship, and St. Shott's
has had its share of the fearful spoil, and more than one
other place between that and Cape Ray. The very
natives and familiars of this chore may be carried out of
their reckoning by unexpected currents, which, sometimes,
seeming to be set going by the winds, defy calculation of

': ■

WW, NKW I'UIKST.

llicir (lirrclion or forcr ; lni( (lini, if lln' wrallHC should
Ihm'oiiu' stoi'iny. (Iht*' i^ l''oilim<' \\\\y, 'y\^\ oi» (lie ollin*
pi(I(> ol' ('m|h' CliMpr.-ni Koiifn', with som<' ;i -od HlicllriH in
it, ntul. on the otlirr linixi, Si. I'drr's in IMi(|iirlon, to
inako tor.

'rin» wind I'mIIm li;;lil nnd tin' wrnllicr conlinnrs v\v[\v
and WMiin. .•«< Ilicy p) down lln' Wwy nnd over lownrd tlio
(\»|>o ; and tlio lonji:; rvniin^. initil laic into llio ni^lil, is
8|>('n(, as sailinj: nn>n an' woni lo s)n'nd a ^ood d<<al of
tlicir finn\ and iIm<s«' men rsjxM'ially, lookin^jj loi- a. short
trip only, wrrc l<Mnpl<Mi lo spond nnicli ol' ihoirs, in lalkinji^.
AVhat Jiadl'ord di«l and said, we brji; the reader to ob-
Hcrvc.

The walch hclow staid on deck ; and exeepl the man
nl the helm and a look-ont forward, all hands were gath-
ered lo}2;ellM'r. anndships. IxMween the ^real pmil and the,
weather hidwarks. They had had several sonj^s — som*^
of them of the sinp'rs' own makinj; — and these last had
a inelaneholy l»nr<len o\' shipwreck or loss of shipmales,
.Mnd then tlu' conversation t«tok a }::loomy character ; and
at lenixth IuimumI to the stipernatnral, as is so connnon
with »>nr tishermeji and with other snpj'rslilions people.

From dwellini:; foi* a irood while toj^ether on the myste-
rious noises and hai>penin<rs in a certaiti cove in llerndt-
np' l^ay. whi<'h was snppose<l to he haunted, jind about
which Tnost i^f iIkmu had stranjre stories to tell, (often ox-
ojlircrations or wonderful alterations of som«' one. common
stock.) they passed to sjx'akiui; of the sii^ht of moun-
tains under water, which olY some parts of the island are
peon, t'ath<^m after fathom, hinidreds of fathoms down b«?-
low the surface. To t)no imaccustomed to the sifjbt of
these in the clear water, thev have m most startlin<j and
dreadt'ul look. Though the highest point be, perhaps,

^M''.

Tlir, LAST OK LADKOKI).

i' should
|Ih> oIIkt
lirllriH ill
iirlon, to

iHN clnir
AvnnI (lio
ni<;lit, Ih
(Icnl of
»r M. short
II (!ilkin<;.
VI' to ob-

(h(< inan
ci'c •jiilh-

iiii«l tlin

j;s — solium

» last hiul

ii|nn!il<'s,

'Irr ; iiud

coiiinioii

)('0|)I('.

ic inyslo-

llcrinit-

Jid iihont

oIUmi ox-

oommoii

of moun-

sl.'iiid sue

down b«3-

sight of

liii^ jind

[)erliaps,

four fnthoin^ (h'rp, yrt th<> eye that can follow down thn
ni;r^rd sidc-i of ihrsc vast inuiiiitaiiH, into tlirir far lift-t
and «'h'lls, is strclrjird wn..- willi tenor, as, with the lon^
sw<'ll of llir Kca, IIk' pcrfn'tly tranH|iai-(>nt (drniciit Win
yon slowly settle towards these awl'nl depths.

Ladlord sate still ; awake or asleeji he t(toU no part in
the eoiiversatioii, hiit at lenn;(h, while they still spoke of
these learl'iil sunken or ne\er-lrodden peaks, the silent
Mtraiif^er first broke silence. In coninioii lan;^iia;j;e, thoii;^li
iibove that of his eonipanions, and sittin;j; as iinnioved nn
he had before been sillin;r, he touched n|>on the different
Hiibjecls of their l<)riiier talk, and told them of thin^,-4
>vhich he had done and seen, or which had happened at \i\n
very side ; but, he said, there was one thin;^ that a man
found out, if he only went in the wuy of it, and thiit wus,
(hat one lu'cdn't be under fear of any thin;jj if he only had
aouH'ihiiKf to lii)l<l (HI to ; and as the man went on, in his
(piiet way, sometimes reasoniii<;, somelimes describinj^ his
experience, somelimes expressin;^ stron;jj conviction, the
silence was kept about his sin;r|(. voiiH", not even brukeii
by words of assent.

The voice seemed to come down from some hei«^hts of
Hpiritnal wisdom, clear and fresh, and when he spoke of
lildden tliin'»;s and mysteries, nih took tluiir inountuiii-
depths buried in clear water for his illustiJition, usiii*;,
sometimes, tin; lan^uaj:;e of Holy Scri|>tnre, he fairly
op<'ned to his hearers a new world, and there were few,
if any, of (hose about him that did not listen attentively ;
thou<]i;h, of course, some heard him in such a way as to be
ready to make a little fun out of his wisdom, by-and-by.

As his voice ceased, it wjus as if an attraction had
ceased to be exerted ; the crew shifted their postures and
filled their pipes ; and when they found the silence to last,

490

THE Ni:W TRIKST.

I '

i ■'*:■ J

l-A:

got up and looked about tl»(;in. In a nionuMit t) o speak-
er's place, was oinpty ; and one of his shi|)inat<'s, going
below, hi'ard a slow, regular bieathiiig of a sleeper ; and
presentlj , drawing gently near, and feeling, found that it
was Ladford sleeping. It was not long betbre a strango
voice made its way into tlu; darkness in which the sleep-
ing and the waking man were, (for the latter had thrown
himself down to rest,) u voice like none the fisherman
knew, and he started up and tied, in great alarm, to the
deck once more. Coming, as it did, directly after their
discussion, there is little cause to wonder at his being put
in terror by it. Several of the men, however, immedi-
ately went down, and the skipper, taking a light with
them ; and having ascertained that no one was there, in
the body, cxcl'pt the single man asl(>ep, awaited, eagerly,
a repetition of the wonder ; the light being, first, carefully
shaded.

Presently a strange sound came again — not like the
voice of man or woman — and it spoke English words.
Then, using their lamp once more, they found that though
Ladford's eyes were fast in slamber, yet his lips were
moving and the words were his. They were uncommonly
soft, and with a peculiar distinctness of their own, much
as if some finer organ than that with which he framed his
waking speech, gave utterance to them, or as if some finer
being, having found this body sleeping, had taken pos-
session of it for a while. Broken sentences, not under-
stood, came first from him, while they were listening, and
by-and-by he said : —

" Take those letters and make his name. The letters
are there ; " and he said it so distinctly that the men be-
gan to search for them, about the place, but in vain.

"'E's dreamun," said they, "mubbe it's about some
child 'e've ahad and loss'd un."

;^e speak-
itt's, going
L'per ; and
ind that it
a .stningu
the sleep-
ad thrown
fisherman
rm, to tlie
ifter their
being put
r, immedi-
light with
s there, in
d, eagerly,
:, carefully

>t like the
sh words,
lat though

lips were
commonly
►wn, much
ramed his
some finer
aken pos-
ot under-

ning, and

he letters
e men be-
vain.
lOut some

THK LAST OF LADFORD.

401

So they stood still and listened for more : " I s'pose it'«
no harm, we listenin' ? " said one of them. The sleeper
soon spoke again : —

'* Tut them all round. L— 0— U— D."

The men looked at eacii other wondei'ing, and leaned
forward, easting glances at the sides of tiie rude place and
the walls, and giving a gleam from the ligiit, which showed
nothing but bunk or bulkhead there, with little articles of
apparel here and there hanging.

" It's the cap'n o' the man-o'-war, mubbe," suggested
on(! of the men, recurring to the g«'neral conjecture about
their shipmate's history.

" J's first, you know," went on the sleeping man ;
" E— S— U— S."

" That's i)retty, now ; isn't it ? " said one of the wit-
nesses of the scene, when, after a moment, they had all
come to the knowledge of his meaning; and every man
of them uncovered his head.

" Do *ee think 'e is all alone ? " was suggested.

The lantern was cautiously held to his face, and, as
they bent over and gazed upon him, they could not but
see the lovely look that lay in his featiu-es ; but there was
none with him that they could see. His clothes were
what the reader may remember as his better dress, and
they were coarse enough ; yet, where his sou'wester had
fallen aside, it looked almost as if scales were cleaving off
from about the brightness of the face. They lingered a
little, and then left him there, at rest.

The morrow came calmly over sea and land, with the
wind blowing gently from the same quarter as on the day
before. By the time that they could well make out the land,
they found themselves abreast of Cape Chapeau Rouge,
and seven or eight miles to windward of it. No one

492

THE NEW PRIEST.

y^i^^ ill l;S;.

I :'\l

roused llie Old Sailor, (as they generally called Ladford,)
when his watch was called ; he had worked hard the day
before, and, moreover, the deference already yielded to
him was increased by the story of the night scene, which
was now generally known on board.

He came np, looking pale and thoughtful, but taking
no notice of the curious glances that his comrades cast at
him. The wind freshened a little, veering rather more
to the southward as they had expected. Ladford, who
had kept himself apart, was standing on the leeward side
of the deck, looking over the water, abstractedly, when,
suddenly, his eyes were drawn toward the bow, and fixed
in that direction. lie shaded them with his hand, and
then his lips moved without sound. Presently he looked
at the large boat which he had induced them to bring,
and then back again toward the bow.

"What punt is that? " he asked, in a low, even voice,
keeping his eyes still fixed.

There were plenty to hear him, — for he was constantly
observed, — and some one answered, catching, unwittingly,
the same tone, —

" There's ne'er a punt where you're looking, at all."

" What punt is that ? " repeated he ; " there ! by the
bow ! "

The answer to this repeated question was to the same
effect ; but given in a faint ^ oice, and rather aside to the
rest than addressed to the asker.

" Do ye see ? " asked the latter again, where they saAv

nothing. " Do ye see her ? See who go there ! " (he

now raised his right hand, slowly, and pointed.) " Who
are they going over the bow ? " His eye kept steadily
fixed, unwinking and unwavering, rather wider than is
natural, and he next drew up to the bulwark, and looked
over, and began, gravelj-, to count.

THE LAST OF LADFORD. 493

I Lad ford,)

" One, two, three, four," he told, up to " fourteen ; "

ird the day

then an anxious exj)ression came upon his face, and,

yielded to

almost immediately, he repeated his count, in the same

;ene, which

way, and to the same end; and then put his hand to his
brow, and passed it over his face as he withdrew it. lie

hut taking

then gave one slow, fixed look towards the spot in which

ides cast at

he had seen the punt and the men, and then turned slowly

ither more

away, and took his place with some sail-makers, who

idlbrd, who

made room for him very readily.

!eward side

The men who had witnessed this singular scene did not

?dly, when,

meddle with him, nor even talk about it aloud ; they spoke

', and fixed

of it, in a low voice, by themselves, and some of tliem

hand, and

went forward to see if there was any thing thereabouts

f he looked

that he could have mistaken for what he thought himself

n to bring.

to have seen. Others were satisfied, without going for-
ward, that the old seaman had had a " visage ; " and they

even voice.

speculated upon it, from time to time, during the day, as
portending something.

constantly

" 'E've got the number of all hands, only one short,"

in wittingly.

said some one. " There's fifteen of we, all told."

In Ladford's immediate neighborhood, there was little

at all."

talking ; yet any question, (generally repeated once or

re! by the

oftener,) he answered in a few pleasant words, perfectly
rightly. He took a double turn at the helm, where old

the same

habit made him do the utmost justice to the schooner's

■*

iside to the

sailing.

Day wore away, and night came on. This second

e they saw

night they were less talkative than on the former, and a

here ! " (he

light breeze bore them on ; there was no working of the.

.) " Who

vessel, and the men were mostly gathered about the cap-

;pt steadily

stan. Ladford was below, and had turned in ; there was

er than is

nothing noticeable about him this night, and all was quiet,

and looked

except for snatches of talk among the men on deck.

4D4

THE NEW PRIEST.

JlCnl,

1:1

I.:.

**'Twas in British Channel we were run down that
time," said one of these. "Took us just about amid-
ships ; but, for all that, she was a long time goun down ;
had time to get aboard o' the ship, and we were a mile
off by the time. She was a tough old thing, that brig."

" I should have thought she'd 'a' broke you all to
pieces," said another.

" Why, no ! it wa'n't a very hard knock she gave us,
seeminly, — the knock was n'. In course she put her long
nose in over us, and got foul with our standun riggin' a'
both sides ; we had to cut away. There ! twasn' much
harder than that, now."

"What?" asked several voices.

"Just that little thump, whatever it was," said the tel-
ler of the story.

Scarcely any one had noticed the little shock to which
he called their attention ; and so the general opinion was
that he had forgotten.

While they were expressing this opinion, the man at
the helm cried out ; and all at the same instant, and by a
common impulse, started up and cried : —

" She's going down ! she's sinking ! God have mercy
upon us ! We're lost men ! " and the other cries of sud-
den terror and dismay.

The skipper was as sudden and stern as lightning, but
perfectly self-possessed, as were the greater part of these
hardy men, who had seen worse things than this. There
was not a minute. There was a rush, as of a mill-stream,
and an unsteady settling of the ship rather over to port,
(that is away from the wind,) and down by the head, —
but all in an instant.

" The big punt ! " was the cry ; and over the deck of
that foundering schooner, like men that tread the crack

THE LAST OF LADFORD.

495

own that
)ut araid-
un down ;
re a mile
It brig."
ou all to

gave us,
t her long

riggin' a'
asn' much

id the tel-

z to which
)inion was

le man at
and by a

ive mercy
es of sud-

tning, but
t of these
. There
ll-stream,
r to port,
e head, —

e deck of
he crack

ling, bending floor of a burning house, they rush. The
large punt is got out, over the bow, — over the lee-bow, —
and just as they are, without stop or stay, without saving
any thing, or trying to save any thing, every man goes
over into her, and they shove off, clear.

" Is there any one behind ? " asks the skipper. " Don't
give way yet ! — Hilloa, there, aboard ! Who's aboard,
there ? " thundered the skipper.

" Not a living soul ! " was the general answer ; and
they could see the whole deck empty. In one breath,
almost, all life had passed out of the great schooner into
the beat.

" Hold on a bit ! " said the skipper, standing aft, with
the sculling oar in hand. The water was up to the bends ;
presently it was up to the chains ; they couldn't tell how
high it was.

" Give way, boys ! Give way, all ! For your life,
now ! " said the skipper.

The punt shot away, leaving the schooner rocking, for
the last time, upon the surface of the deep. All eyes
were fixed in silence upon her, in the dimness of the night,
about three hundred yards off. There was something
solemn or awful in the sight of the deserted vessel, tall
and ghastly, going through the last, alone. It was like a
living tragedy. She rocked a little to and fro— but very
little. The men, in their own misfortune, felt sad for her.

" It's cruel ! " said the skipper. " It's hard to see her
go that way ! but isn't she a lady ! "

He was proud of her, and of the way in which she was
going to her end, while his heart was full of her loss ; but
there was a change, soon enough.

" What's Aat ? " " Sure enough ! " " Count ! for
God's sake ! " shouted differeiit voices. " Three, — and

■106

THE NEW PRIEST.

lift:'-:

: '-r

.'h ::i

five ; — and two are seven, — ten, — thirteen, — fourteen !
Good God ! there's some one aboard I We're one short I
Let's have a try for him ! "

But at the instant, with a sort of wail from under her
deck, down went the lee-Blink, sails and all, fathom by
fathom, — the waters coming to.i:^ether with a great swash,
— and the Deep had swallowed her up! She was gone!

— " But we're all here," said one of the saved men,
when they began to breathe again. "■ Who's missun ? "

No, no. There were but fourteen of them. " And
where's the Old Sailor ? " asked the skipper. Sure
enough, he was missing !

" And this is 'es punt ; and was n' there fourteen went
over the bow ? an' was n' that a visage ? "

" Come, come, boys ! Let's pull there again, and we
may i)iok up so)uet/iu?i" said the skipper. He did not
say " somebody," but " something."

They searched all about the place ; but nothing was to
be ibund ; nor could they even make out what had sunk
their schooner. If it had been spring, the ice might have
done it ; as it was, they had not been run down, — they
had not struck a rock. — It might have been a floating
wreck, t)erhaps, that had cut through her ; but they could
not tell.

And the Old Sailor was gone with her ! If it was for
the interest of Father Nicholas that he should not appear
at the Court in Harbor Grace, — if it was for the interest
of justice that he should, — it is settled already. Alone,
in that great schooner for his colfm, with the tall masts
over him, and sail set, under the deep water, sleeps the
body of William Ladt'ord, or Warrener Lane, once smug-
gler and sinner, to await the General Rising.

His shipwrecked mates pulled, heavy-hearted, for the

.1 ; ;"/<.

■■;', r

THE LAST OF LADFORD.

41)7

urteen 1
e short I

idor her
horn by
it swash,
IS gone !
ed men,
isun ? "
, " And
r. Sure

teen went

1, and we
3 did not

ns was to
had sunk
ight have
|vn., — they
a floating
[hey could

lit was for

lot appear

|e interest

Alone,

tall masts

;leeps the

lice sniug-

}d, for the

land. One man (but it must be remembered that it was
night,) said that he could see the Old Sailor witii his hand
over his eyes, as in the morning of that day ; and it was
also asserted (and it may be so) that the fatal word
" Fourteen " came over the water to the punt.

A gale lu?aded the boat off; and after narrowly escap-
ing swamping, (it was the great punt, under God, that
saved them,) the crew got on board a lumber-ship, out of
the St. Lawrence, and having been carried hnlf-way
across the ocean, happening to meet a Newfoundland ves-
sel, were transf(n'rcd to her.

This was the last of Lad ford's story. It was soon
spread among his former neighbors, and divided the inter-
est of the trial. It is a common fate for fishermen to be
drowned ; but the man's death was singular and strange,
as much of his lil'e had been. There wen; abundant wit-
nesses of all the facts, and often is tlu; tale told in Pla-
centia, and very often among the people; of Peterport.

Shortly after the I'arson's return from his walk with
the Attorney-General, Jesse Hill presc nted himself in the
parlor at the Bay-llarbor parsonage, and drawing down
his red forelock, by way of salutation to Mr. Wellon,
said : —

" Sarvunt, sir ! I made so bold " — (here he stole a
glance toward the entry, and Isaac came to his support,)
— " Pareson, ef ee'd be so well-j)lased, sir," he went on,
leaving his exordium, and rushing to his subject, " we
wants to git Willum Ladtbrd's pardon, sir." Mr. Wel-
lon looked at him in surprise.

" He's pardoned in Paradise, long before this, I hope,
Jesse," said he.

" I know, sir ; but I means the [lardon from the Gov-
ernor, sir ; that's the paper. You know we can't bury

Pi
I

408

THE NEW PRIEST.

i'i r

un, Pareson Wellon ; and *ee know people says there's
stones with writings on 'em put up in churches in Eng-
hmd ; an' so a good many of us tliought we'd ax for 'e's
pardon, an' put un in a frame an' hang un up in the
scliool-house for a sort of a grave-stone, hke."

The Parson's surprise had changed into a different feel-
ing, before Jesse had done sj)eaking ; and he assured him
that he would do his best to get what tliey wanted, and
they might hang it up in the church, if they liked.

We may anticipr.te sufficiently the time to say that the
Document, engrossed and bearing its seal, was afterward
secured and presented to Jesse for the rest. Jesse Hill
asked the Minister to be " so well-plased to read it," and
having secured its being made plain that the Warrener
Lane in the writing was the man usually known as " Wil-
liam Ladford," Jesse insisted, in the name of his neigh-
bors, on paying the charges, " for they things cost money,'*
and having been satisfied in this respect also, took the
paper thankfully away.

It is now a tablet to the memory of poor Lane, or Lad-
ford, in the church at Peterport.

C^nI

STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

499

there's
n Eng-

for 'e's
f in the

ent feel-
ired liim
ited, and
i.

that the
.fterward
isse Hill
i it," and
^arrener
as " Wil-
lis neigh-
L money,'

took the

i, or Lad-

»>

CHAPTER LHI.

STRANGE HAPPENINGS IN THE " SPRING-BIRD."

<T was on Thursday that the Court adjourned, leav-
ing not only the accused acquitted of the crime with
which they liad been charged, but the fate of Sliip-
per George's daughter as dark as ever. The verdict was
the only one that conld have been brought in u[)on the
evidence ; and the Attorney-General said that he could
not wonder at the result. " He had proof enough," he
said, " that Crampton had been a villain to others ; but
he could not prove that he had made way with Lucy
Barbury, whatever he might think about it."

The Chief-Justice left Bay-Harbor for the Capital, in
a private boat, on Thursday afternoon. Judge Beam
and his other associate waited for the " packet " of the
next day. Mr. Wellon, having passed the night with his
brother clergyman at Bay-Harbor, went homewards next
morning.

Half-way upon the road the Minister encountered the
carrier, who hud two letters for him, which had come
from the other end of the Bay, and which the man said
he had brought on to Bay- Harbor, where he heard that
Mr. Wellon was, because he thought they had something
to do with Skipper George's daughter ; for he had sent
in one from the River-head to her father, as he came
alons;'.

600

THE NEW PRIEST,

The Parson hastened to break the seal of one of them,
and, after reading a little way, with a look of interest and
wonder, as he sat upon his horse, turned to the signature ;
then opened the other, and looking first to the name of
the writer, read it eagerly, with occasional words of aston-
ishment, riding, at the same time, back towards Bay-
Harbor, with the letter-carrier at his side.

Tiie substance of the two letters (which were from
Captain Nolesworth and his second mate) we put into a
narrative form, for it belongs to our story, and is an ac-
count of certain strange things which happened in the
brig of which Captain Nolesworth and Mr. Keefe were
Master and second officer.

The " Spring-Bird " sailed, it will be remembered, on the
night of the nineteenth of August, the same in which, as
had been suspected, Lucy Barbury was murdered in Bay-
llarbor.

At about eleven o'clock that night, — a fine wind having
sprung up, — ofricers and men were all on board, and with
the merry breeze she went down Conception Bay, along
by Bacaloue Island, and so out toward sea.

Thereabouts the wind falls baffling, and soon heads
round and round, until it comes in from the ocean. She
tacks over to Cape St. Francis, and clears Newfoundland.
There is a thick fog outside ; but between it and the land
is a street of clear water, with the tall cliffs on one hand,
and that unsubstantial wall upon the other ; and across
this open water she lies, until she buries herself so com-
pletely that one end of the brig can scarcely be seen from
the other. So she works her way by long st^ tches, out
into the great w^aste of waters across which she is bound.
All sail is set that will draw : — topsails, topgallant-sails,
and royals, fore and aft, — those square sails that, in day-

STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

501

Df them,
rest an<l
^nature ;
[lame of
3f aston-
ds Bay-
re from
t into a
s an ac-
i in the
ete were

;(1, on the
vhich, as
. in Bay-

d having
and with
ly, along

heads
in. She
undland.
the land
ne hand,
d across
so com-
een from
ches, out
is bound,
ant-sails,
, in day-

light or moonlight, sit so jauntily upon these wanderers
of the sea. Away aloft, they look as if they were taken
out of the strongest of the mist, and cut to shape and tied
down to the yards. The high, full moon can do little
with this fog ; and by way of warning to any ship that
may be near, a sort of thunder is beaten out of the hollow
of a cask, and a sharp look-out kept. " Eight bells," for
four o'clock ! The second mate's watch is turned up ; the
man at the wheel gives up the helm to a new hand, telling
him how to steer, when the Captain, who stood smoking
forward of the companion-way, or opening to the cabin
stairs, feels his arm squeezed in such a way as makes him
start and turn round suddenly. He asks, at the same
time, —

" Who are you ? What do you want ? "

" Captain," answered a voice, which he recognized as
that of the late helmsman, though his face was so strange
that, in the dimness, he did not at first know it, " there's
something round there to leeward."

" Why, man alive ! what are you talking about ? and
what makes you look so ? " said the Captain, turning
round to leeward, and straining his eyes over the quarter-
rail, to make out the strange sight ; " Tom, look out on
the lee quarter ; do you see any thing ? "

" It's aboard of us, Cap'n," said the man who had
brought the alarm.

" Why, you're standing up and dreaming v;ith your two
eyes open ; don't you think we should have felt it by this
time ? "

At this instant a cry came from among the men for-
ward, which made the Captain leap from his place to go
toward them. A strange sort of cry it was, of several
voices in one ; but all suppressed by fear.

!•'

502

THE NEW PRIEST.

" What ails yc, tliere ? " he called out. " What is 't ?
speak out."

As he came abreast of the cook's galley, the second
mate eauie rigiit in front of him, holding u\) his two arms,
without saying a word.

" Why, what's the matter ? For mensy's sake, Mr.
Keefe, are i/ou mad ? " the Captain shouted to him.

" 'Bide a minute, Cap'n Noleswortli," said the mate,
breathing hard, and bcMiding over himself to recover
breath and strength. " 'Bide a minute, sir ! The brig's
all right, sir," he said, keeping his seaman's pres(;nce of
mind ; " but there's more aboaril than ever shipped in
her ! I'll show you," said he , and, holding by the
weather bulwarks, he went forward.

A few ste[)s brought him to a stantl ; and saying, in a
luisky voice, "There, sir ! " he pointed with his lell hand.

The Captain followed the direction of his hand, and,
looking steadily a while, made out a figure, white and
ghastly, standing near the lee bulwarks where the pale,
misty shimmer of the mcon fell on it, under the foresail.
It seemed, to a long, searching sight, a female figure ; and
it almost seemed as if two eyes were gazing, with a dull
glare, out of the face. At this dim hour, in misty moon-
light, amid the fright of men, perhaps Captain Noles-
worth would have found it hard to keep out of his mind
that overmastering fear that, in the minds of most of us,
lies rather hidden than dead, and starts up some time,
suddenly, when we feel as if we were breaking through
into the land of spirits, or its inhabitants were forcing or
feeling their way to us. The first words spoken were of
a kind to turn the scale, if it were balanced, down to the
side of awe and dread.

" I sid un come in over the side," said the man who

STRANGE HArrENINGS.

503

lit 18 't ?

1 second
vo arms,

ke, Mr.

Hi mate,

recover
le brig'rt
icmcc of
pped in

by the

ing, in a
ii\ hand,
md, and,
lite and
lie pale,
foresail,
ire ; and
h a dull
y moon-
Noles-
lis mind
st of us,
lie time,
through
)rcing or
were of
n to the

lan who

Imd first spoken to the Captain, of the strange thing, and
who had now followed the two olliecirs of the vessel to the
8pot where, thry luul taken stand. " 'Xae'ly ha the watch
changed, it coined."

'riu! man who said this slinik, like a living mass of
fright, h(!hiiid the second inat(^

" What are you talking, man ? " said the Captain, in a
low voice, and keeping his place.

As the mist changed and fl(;eted momentarily, so the
figure changed ; growing now dimmer and now more dis-
tinct, much like the thicker suhstance of a nebula, while
many eyes were gazing, jit their widest, on it.

The Captain had not lost himself, old sailor as he was;
for he c^Uled out, perciinptorily, to the man now at the
helm, " What are you doing with the brig, then;, you ?
Keep her a good fidl ! Can't you see you've got her all
shaking ? Put your helm up, sir. and if you want me to
take you away from the wheel, hit me know it."

Even the Captain's voice, speaking so much to the pur-
pose, h.id a strange, thin sound ; it was not like itself. It
took effect, indeed, upon the helmsman, who managed to
get the vessel on her course again, although with a good
deal of unsteadiness of steering, after that ; but it had not
the effect of clearing the air of its unearthly influences, or
reassuring those who had been struck with terror by the
phantom.

" We must see into this thing," the Captain said ; " T
must be master of my own ship."

The watch on deck, — th(3 whole crew, perhaps, — are
clustered in the close neighborhood of the captain and
second mate, except the helmsman ; who, in answer to
another caution of the master, says that he is doing his
best; but that the brig will not steer, vrhile That is

601

THE NEW PRIEST.

'tMii

^.^rJ

r'f'AV.

1 ;

■

H'- ^

"U'li .■

( i

■

UHfiiMi

m '•

■ mMIj

■*f *^^

' '^f^;

If '

t J'i'

^ 1

there ; and there, in the mist, as a wljitc shell in deep
water, pjh^ams the sli^^ht npparition.

In the sauK! instant with all this, the nii^ty shape itself
moved from its place ; — its misty robes floating, and the
mist around it waving, horribly.

A sort of shudder seized the men, and they crowded
togetluM*, still more (;losely.

" IMr. K«'efe, will you go aft and take the helm?" said
the Captain.

" Ay, ay, sir," said the second mate, aloud ; and then
drawing close to Captain Nolesworth, he said privately,
" As sure as I live, sir, that's Luey Barbury's ghost I "
and he hurried to relieve the frightened man at the wheel.

The master glanced hastily up at the sails, and out
upon the sea. " Go forward, men ! " said he to the crew.
The unsubstantial shape had swayed itself, instantly, back,
and seemed leaning against the bulwark, and still gazing
through the mist.

" She'll bring a gale ! " said one of the trembling
crew, from where they had clustered, by the forward
hatch.

" Keep still there, with your foolishness ! John Ayers !
you and Thompson lay out, with all hands, on the weather
yard-arms, and rig out our studding-sail-booms, alow and
aloft ! Cheerily, now ! Away with ye ! " said the Cap-
tain ; but even the Cr.ptain's voice sounded foggy ; and
the men climbed lubberly.

Again the figure moved as if to come forward, or
seemed to move. Intense fear seemed to strike the men
motionless, each man where he was.

" Look out, Cap'n ! — behind you ! " shouted Keefe, the
second mate. A murmur arose, also, from the men in
the rigging.

in deep

ipe itself
, and the

crowded

n?" said

and then
privately,
s ghost ! '*
he wheel.
, and out
the crew,
itly, back,
till gazing

trembling
forward

in Ayers !

e weather
alow and
the Cap-

ggy; and

rward, or
e the men

i!eefe, the
e men in

STRANGE IIAPPENIXdS.

50.')

" Where di<l you come from, my man ?" snid the Cap-
tain, turning short, and s<'izing a handspike from a
tall, strong fellow who hail it lifted in air with both
hands.

•' I 're goun to heave it at un I " eried the man.

" Wait till I hid you, or take care I don't heavo
you overboard!" said Captain Nolesworth. "Go for-
ward ! "

Again tl'ere was an exelamation from the m(>n ; the
Captain turned, and the figin'<' \\\\, gliding fast from the
waist of the vessel, where it had been, toward the stern.
The mist waved about it, as if the two were of one. Its
head seemed bound up with a misty band, as that of a
corpse is bound.

A movement behind him made the Captain turn
quickly ; the man whom he had disarmed I.ad his huge
weapon raised, again, with both his hands, ready to throw
it, as before.

The Captain rushed upon him ; but the ugly hand-
spike, ere Captain Nolesworth reached him, was whirled
acToss the deck ; — and then a cry, such as had not yet
been heard or uttered there, went up ; a strange ghostly
woman's cry ; not made of words, and, as it were, half
stifled in the utterance.

The Captain uttered an answering cry, himself, and
there were confused voices of the crew, as Captain Noles-
worth, in an instant, throttled and threw down the thoiiglit-
less ruffian. When he sprang up, and to the lee-side,
nothing was there but the bulwarks with thick dew upon
them ; aft was the hatch over the companion-way ; the
wheel, deserted, — and, beyond, two dark, human figures
against the stern-railing. Tiiere was mist everywhere ;
but of the animated form of mi.t, which, slight and unsub-

1 l;l'3

1 h

. 5'

THE NEW PRIEST.

stantial itself, had made stout men to shake, there was no
trace. He hastily looked over at the vessel's wake ; but
human eye could see only a very little way ; no glittering
bubbles were there ; the great waves rose and fell, under
a close cloud of fog.

The Captain took the deserted helm in time to prevent
the ship from getting herself taken all aback.

— " I had to run, to keep this fellow, here, from making
way with himself, sir," said the second mate.

" He wouldn't have gone any further than the stern-
boat, I don't think," said the master ; then, dropping the
sneer, his voice became changed and sad, as he said, as
if he were continuing a conversation, — "and what became
of her ? "

" I don't know, sir," answered the second mate. " I
couldn't see the last of it ; but, as sure ns I'm standing
on this quarter-deck, sir," he continued, in a low voice,
apart, to the Captain, " I saw that face, and it was Lucy
Barbury's."

Keefe was a Peterport man ; the Captain was a Peter-
port trader.

" It did look like it ! " said he, looking up at the sails
and then down into the binna,de. All was still, but the
rising wind and washing waves.

A spirit, out of another state of being coming back,
cold and disembodied, but wearing still an unsubstantial
likeness to the body that it used to wear, among quick
men, of flesh and blood, — the hair will creep, and the
flesh crawl, at thought of it.

The men, — most, or all of them, for their remissness
had been tolerated, for the moment, — drew aft ; and all
was silent, but the whirring wind and washing waves.
By-and-by, a voice among them murmured, —

'e was no
ake ; but
glittering
till, under

prevent

n making

he stern-
pping the
e said, as
,t became

late. " I

standing

ow voice,

^as Lucy

a Peter-

the sails
, but the

ng back,

ibstantial

ng quick

and the

smissness
; and all

g waves.

STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

507

" Ef we had akept oui ^* this 'am fog ! They things
are made of it."

" Ef we h;idn' asailed tull to-morrow ! " said another
" We got a warnun, ef we 'd give hoed to it, when we
found our boat aboard, last evenun, with ne'er a hand to
row her ! "

" Mr. Keefe," said the Cai)tain, " you will get your
watch together, if you please ; and let's have things
orderly, again ; and men ! " he added, in a steady tone
of authority, " if you're afraid, I'm not. I know you're
good fellows ; but you'd best leave talking, and let me
and the officers of the brig, manage our cwn business.
You can go about your work ; I don't think many of you
know where you've been, this last while. — You'll put a
man at the wheel, sir, if you can find one. — Come now,"
said he, by way of putting heart into the crew, who had
not yet recovered their composure, " which of ye 's got
his sense about him ? "

" Captain Noseworth," said one of the men, " I sid un
go over the side just like a great whiter bird, in a manner,
and that was the last of un. It was about so big as a
eagle ; much the same."

" When did you ever see an eagk " inquired the Cap-
tain.

" Oh ! sir, I never did rae one, but a portray — "

" And where were you, sir ? " asked the master
again.

" I were just hereabouts, sir, as you may say,*' returned
the man.

" And standing up on your feet ? " asked the master.

The sight-seer wa'^ silent. The first mate, whom the
Captain now saw, for the first time since he had turned
in, — being sick, — at twelve o'clock, answered for him ; he

508

THE NEW PRIEST.

J ''

m 1 'I

wasn't on his feet, when I picked him up off the deck,
face down, a while ago."

" I'm afeared you'll laugh on me," said another, " but /
was on my feet, and, to the best o' my notion, it went light
dov-n through tlie deck, and never went over the side,
at all."

The mate on being asked, said that he turned out of his
berth, when all that running was on deck. " He didn*t
know what was to pay, unless the foremast was walking
off and the men after it "

Captain Nolesworth was a plain, matter-of-fact seaman,
of fifty years' age, or upwards, and very sensible and
Avell-informed. The suns of many climes had not in
vain, done each its part in giving to his face its deep, dark
hue ; nor had the winds of many countries breathed and
blown upon him, and the various foliage waved, and the
many-shaped and colored houses and towns of men shut
him in, and the manv-tongued race of men under all dif-
ferent governments, and with all different manners, dealt
and talked with him in vain. He was a listening man,
and at the same time, hearty and cheery, where it fell
to him to be so, and always ready to have it fall to
him.

He was no Newfoundlander, though trading for so
many years into and out of Newfoundland. He was not
superstitious, and never in his life (so he ^rrote) had seen
so much as an approach to confirmation of the hundred
stories of supernatural appearances that he had heard and
read. Still he was a man ; and man is sure that tl^ere
are angels and spirits, or ghosts and disembodied shapes ;
at least there is a fear, where there is not belief, that in
the smooth, unbroken wall that bounds between the world
of flesh and that of spirit, there are doors, where we

iii

STRANGE HAPPENINGS.

509

he deck,

r, « but /
ent light
the side,

out of hii
1q didn*t
i walking

; seaman,
sible and
d not in
eep, dark
ithed and
, and the
men shut
jr ill dif-
ers, dealt
mg man,
e it fell
lit fall to

g for so
was not
lad seen
hundred
ard and
\?,i ti^ere
shapes ;
that in
le world
lere we

cannot see them, that open from the other side. More-
over, the very faith of Christian people assures them that
intercourse has been, and therefore may be, between the
beings of another state and those of ours ; the question,
in any case, is, therefore, as to the fact and reason of the
special case, and not the reason or fact of such things
generally. That they are of the rarest, and only for
God's special purpose, (unless men can contrive to be
familiar with the devil's ministers,) we know. The sacred
common sense of men, where it mav use its nostrils and
its eyes, laughs at, or is disgusted with the legendary
marvels of the Romish Breviary, and the attempted
systems of the dealers with familiar spirits !

" The very time ! " the Captain said ; " and you met
nothing on the companion-ladder ? "

" No sir, not a thing. The first I heard was after 1
came on deck. I see you was busy and I've only heard
what the men had to say. — It's an uncommon queer piece
of business ! "

" Well now, boys, we've had enough of this," said the
Captain. " The fog 's clearing off; let this thing go with
it ; " then looking at his watch by the binnacle light, (for
day was not yet begun,) he said, " Let them strike one
bell there, forward, Mr. Keefe." A half-hour had passed
since this strange scene began, although the phantom had
been seen for a few minutes only.

" Get those studding-sail-booras rigged out, sir, if you
please, as they ought to be ; " added the master ; and
from that time forward, he kept the men for hours occu-
pied in different ways, until the day had been long clear
and bright, and the brig was fifty miles away from New-
foundland.

The wind came fresher and fresher ; the wind of all

510

THE NEW PRIEST.

;i*

winds for them ; and the tumbling waves tried to keep
up with the swift vessel, as she ran through the water,
carrying all sail that she could carry, because the Captain
said they would be likely to want wind before they saw
Madeira.

i'!

i---lh

1 to keep

the water,

e Captain

they saw

THE GHOST AGAIN.

511

CHAPTER LIV.

THE GHOST AGAIN.

|APTAIN NOLES WORTH had persuaded the
chief mate to go down again ; and while he hira-
&e^i staid on deck, until late in the forenoon, and
kept an eye to every thing, yet, sometimes, leaning upon
the quarter-rail, with his back to the deck, he seemed to
lose himself in thought.

It was about ten o'clock in the forenoon, that the
master went below ; and, presently coming up, called to
the steward to go down forward, and see what was
against the bulk-head door ; (for in the " Spring-Bird " a
door opened from the cabin into the hold.) The man sent
had scarcely disappeared before he came out of the hatch
again, in all fright.

" It's the ghost ! " said he ; and the cry m^e a new
stir on board. The second mate, who had -jUst laid
himself down on deck, sprang down the hatchway,
and the Captain hurried from the cabin and followed
him.

The weight that lay against the bulk-head-door, was
indeed, — as they could make out by the daylight coming
down through the broad opening in the deck, — a girl's
body. It lay, asleep or dead, with the right arm under
the cJKiek, the eyes closed, and the rich, black hair, loosed

W' ''

512

THE NEW FKlEbT.

frc.^ under the cap, lying like a black flood upon the
shoulders.

" Well ! Well ! " said the Captain, throwing up his
hands.

" That's her, and no mistake ! " said Mr. Keefe ; and
the two lifted her tenderly, as sailors dc, and opening the
door against which she had leaned, carried her through
and laid her on the cabin-floor.

" This must be something she's taken," said the Cap-
tain ; " but how, on earth, did she come aboard of us,
after all ? " (It must be remembered that he had sailed
four days after her disappearance.)

" That boat didn't come aboard without hands, that
other night," said the second mate.

They lost no time in applying restoratives, such as
years of expei'ience had made the Captain familiar with,
and his medicine-chest furnished ; and presently brought
her to consciousness.

" There ! Thank God ! " said the master.

" Amen ! " said the mate and second mate.

She looked a little wildly, and her mind was a few
moments in gathering itself together ; and even then, she
was weak and faint ; but it was Lucy Barbury, herself, a
good deal worn and wasted, but with something of her own
brightness in her eye, and of her own sweet smile at her lip.

She spoke first, asking abruptly : —

" How did I get there ? "

" That we can't tell you ; " said the Captain, " if you
can't tell us."

" Are father and mother alive ? "

" Yes," said Captain Nolesworth, and then turned to
his second mate : " Here's Mr. Keefe," said he, " that
knows all about things, better than I do."

THE GHOST AGAIN.

513

The second mate answered every thing very satis-
factorily ; and then, putting a check upon their own
curiosity, they had some tea and brewse,* made in the
best art of the ship's cook, and by the time she had satis-
fied her appetite, (wliich was good enough to encourage
the captain much,) she was put in possession of one of
the two state-rooms that the brig counted and left to
rest.

The brig was a changed thing with her on board.
Had she had but the histoi-y of the last night about her,
it would have been much ; but every sailor in the ship
was soon talking of the lovely and wonderful character
of her life at home.

The wind grew lighter as day declined ; but the sick
girl grew better there at sea, — perhaps was already
getting better when she came on board, and here she
was, missed and mourned in Peterport, and strangely
enough, wandering off upon the ocean.

" If we hadn't been all fools together last night," said
the captain, when he was out of her hearing, " we might
have stood a chance of landing her ; but we must make
the best of it now."

Her story was soon told when they could get it ; she
only remembered being at Mr. Urston's and seeing Mrs.
Calloran, before finding herself in a room with two nuns,
at Bay- Harbor. They told her tliat Father Nicholas
was offering up the mass for her, and the Sisters were
fasting and praying for her, and she would go home as
soon as she was well enough. She did not know how
many days she had been there, for her memory of the
time was much confused, and of the day of her escape
particularly, whether from the effect of medicine or some
* Ship-bread soaked into a pulp in warm water.

, I.

514

THE NEW PRIEST.

1 1

I,' i

'•' 'fi

i- I

Other cause, her recollection was not distinct. She heard
them speak of the " Spring Bird" being about to sail for
Madeira, and after the nuns were in bed, between nine
and ten o'clock, she put on a white dress which had been
made in the nunnery for her, threw a cloak and hood
over her and escaped. She had a sort of fancy in her
mind at the time, that she was a slave whose story she
had read. To scull a boat was easy and natural to her
as to walk the street.

" Yes, that's the way our boat came aboard, when we
were ashore, all hands but Dick (he's a bright chap !).
It would be almost a good job to pitch that letter we got
from the nunnery for Funchal, into the sea to the sharks,"
said Keefe.

— " So that youngster that wanted to ship with me,—
the one that was going to be a priest," — said the captain,
by way of particularizing, " is a cousin of yours ? "

Lucy colored. " Not my full cousin," said she.

" Well, he looked like a fine fellow, only he was out of
heart when he came to me."

Lucy, in her innocent way, began eagerly, —

" Was that after ? " and there stopped.

" I don't know what had been before it," said the Cap-
tain, significantly, and smiling at the same time ; " but it
was before you went away. He gave that all up though,
and he's safe enough at home, I think."

Time went on. The Captain did his best to keep her
in good spirits, and was a cheery man, and everybody on
board was ready to do any thing for the pretty maiden's
pleasure. The only real chivalry extant in this age is
in sailors, and they treated her like a queen. A great
many things were continually contrived and done to
amuse her ; but it will easily be thought, that though her

THE GHOST AGAIN.

515

I heard
sail for
in nine
id been
d hood
in her
ory she
1 to her

^hen we
chap !).
? we got
sharks,"

h me,—
captain.

IS out of

the Cap-
« but it
though,

keep her

ybody on

maiden's

lis age is

A great

done to

lOugh her

strong constitution rallied from the fever, yet it was im-
possible for her to be happy or at ease, knowing that at
home there must be mourning for her as for one lost, and
that gray hairs most dear, might for her sake be bending
in sorrow toward the grave.

Still no one tried to entertain her, so hard as she to
cheer herself.

The passage to Madeira was a long one. After their
first fine favoring wind came a dead calm, and twelve
hours after a gale began to blow under the summer sky,
and blew them down many a league, and then they
woi'ked up again, past the Azores as well as they could
with fickle baffling winds.

It was clear weather when they first got sight of land,
some sixty miles away, and then the towering peaks rose
up more and more plainly, and as they drew in towards
Funclial in early evening, the luxuriant light and dark
green of the foliage showed themselves through that at-
mosphere, which seems to be the property of such a
climate, and there came out over the water sweet smells,
that had been gathering for the many centuries that this
lovely spot has lain under its sun ; but the eyes of our
Newfoundland maiden were full of tears for the homely
island, poor and barren, that held her father's house, and
for those that she knew had wept and still were weeping
for her.*

* Years after the latest edition, a lady told the author a story, all in
her own knowledge, of an heiress, taught in a ^Montreal convent, lost
the day after coming to her fortune; followed against denials, almost
without clew, and found in a convent in Detroit, bitterly ruing and
homesick. — 1889.

516

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER LV.

MKS. CALLORAN'S REVELATIONS.

i>TM

Hit D'^'i

HE letters from Captain Nolesworth and his
second mate, containing this intelligence from
the lost maiden, had been sent from London,
(to which place the " Spring Bird " had gone with a cargo
from Madeira,) and the writers " expected to be in New-
foundland, if nothing happened more tiian usual, as soon
as the letters."

As Mr. Wellon read, he kept his horse at a brisk walk
toward Bay-Harbor, and as he finished reading, informed
the carrier, who had managed to keep by his side, that
Skipper George's daughter was on her way home from
England, and then gave a kind message to the astonished
man of letters for Skipper George, to be left at the River-
head of Peterport, at Mr. Pi[)er's. " I'll take it down to
un myself," said the man, who was athirst for more intel-
ligence about this strange case. Mr. Wellon then hurried
forward and found the Attorney-General still at his
lodgings.

" It's good we couldn't hang him for murdering her,"
said the Attorney-General, when he had heard the Parson's
story ; " though he deserves it for other things that the
law wouldn't hang him for; but Bangs and Ladford were
right, and they must have had her drugged when they

MRS. CALLORAN'S REVELATIONS.

and his
ce from
London,
1 a cargo

in New-
, as soon

isk walk
nformed
ide, that
ne from
onished
e River-
down to
re intel-
hurried
at his

ng her,'*
Parson's
that the
•rd were
en they

took lier from I'etcrport, and when they were showing
the Yankee round the nunnery. I wish he'd had a good
taste of prison with Mrs. Calloran. We can luive him
again, and cast him in exemplary damages, if you like.
Is there anybody to prosecute ? I'll get it argued and
without fees."

"I think we could manage that," said Mr. Wellon,
thinking.

" We will manage it somehow," said the lawyer.

Meantime the news went stirring up the people all
round the Bay, and bringing happiness to more than one
fond heart in Peterport.

A warrant was got out for Father Nicholas's arrest
again ; but Father Nicholas was not to be found.

Judge Beam determined to prolong his stay for a few
days, to attend to the preliminary steps of the case, (as it
was likely to be a proceeding very distasteiul to a good
many [)eople ;) but the accused could not be found at the
Mission premises, nor anywhere else, and the best infor-
mation that could be got of him was, that he had been in
the house the night before, at about nine o'clock. From
that time nothing had been seen of him.

The packet-boats in the Bay were overhauled, and for
a day or two all places in which there was any likeli-
hood of finding him or hearing of him, w^ere visited in
vain.

On Saturday Mr. Weilon, before going home, called
on the Attorney-General and learned the result.

" Depend upon it, he's one of those persons "^hat go
through this world unwhipped," said the Attorney. " It's
one of those cases that enforce Bishop Butler's argument
for future retribution. — Calloran would be rather small
game. Wouldn't she ? "

' i

518

TIIK NKW PRIKST.

:^ffT

V,i-

■m; vi 'I

" O yo.s ! " said the Parson ; " but I should like her
nrcount of the way in which it was done, to fill up the
breaks in our story ; — if we eouM get it."

" I fancy tliat wouldn't be hard," said the lawyer, " that
constable of yours seem:' to have an instinct for nosing
her out. We've kept him for the week, as he seemed a
good fellow, and I'll set him on, and hear his report of
the experiment this afternoon, at Castle-Bay ; — I've a
little business there with an old servant."

Gilpin was easily got, and accepted the commission
with some satisfaction.

Mr. Wellon, having occasion to stay in Bay-Harbor,
gave him afterward a message for Skipper George.

" Couldn't you ask him to come over to Castle-Bay ? "
inquired the Attorney. " Lawyers are not a sentimental
race, and when we've done our best with a case, are apt
to dismiss it ; but I confess I should like to see this
father."

The Parson hesitated. "I shouldn't like to summon
Skipper George to come to me," said he. " I've made
an appointment with him at his own house ; but if you
desire it, sir, he'll come with pleasure, no doubt."

" No, no ; I'll take a hint from your example ; why
should T be summoning him up and down ? I may find
time to go round and see him."

The two rode up to Castle-Bay together, and as they
came to a turn of the road near the beach, having been
remarking on tlie gentle beauties of the landscape, which
showed themselves, one after another, as the riders [ad-
vanced, the legal gentleman exclaimed, —

" That must be your Skipper George, now ; " as it
was, — in Gilpin's company. He came along the beach,
tall, strong, and trusty-looking as a mast. There was a

MRS. OALLORAN'S REVELATIONS.

r}]^

like her
, up the

er, " that
r nosing
5eemo(l ti
•eport of
— I've a

mmission

-Harbor,

•ge.

le-Bay?"
ntimental
B, are apt

> see this

> summon

*ve made

ut if you
>»

pie ; why
may find

d as they
ving been
pe, which
riders cd-

7 '," as it
he beach,
3re was a

glad look in his face that lately had not been there. In

man

saluting his pastor, tl

tionate deference was beautiful.

" Tills is the Honorable Attorney-Geneial, that pleaded
the cause at Hay-Harbor," said the Parson ; and the
iisherinan bowed, with very grave respect, to the eminent
lawyer, while the constable's eye twinkled and his face
glistened, on the occasion.

" 'Tvvas very kind of 'eo, sir, and I humbly thank 'ee ;
but I'm glad there hasn' any body done a murder."

" And I'm glad your daughter is alive to come back,"
said the Attorney. " Few parents have such children, to
lose and recover."

" A child is a child, I suppose, sir ; but she's a wonder-
ful child for the like o' me, surely, sir. Ef it's the Lord's
will for Lucy to come back, there'll be a many proud to
see her, I believe."

At the moment, while he spoke, something caught his
eye, to seaward, from which, having glanced Jit it, he
turned hastily away ; then, looking straight ui)on it, while
his companions having followed the direction of his eye,
could see the square, white canvas of a vessel coming up
the Bay, he said : —

" It's Skipper Edward Ressle's schooner, from the
Larbadore."

Of course, then, it was not the " Spring-Bird," bring-
ing his daughter, as a less sure glance might have mis-
taken it.

" In good time, ef it's His good will," he said, again,
answering, in words, to what might have been an un-
spoken thought of his companions, and doubtless was his
own thought.

"'Twould be too much trouble for 'ee to sro down to

'. I'

L^H

: 1

M >

520

THE NEW PRIEST.

!■' if

my house a-purpose, sir ; — and this excellent gentleman,"
he said to the past(jr.

" I must go down, of course," said Mr. Wellon.

" And I'll go about my business," said the Attorney-
General. " These parsons have the advantage of us ; —
you have to do with all the best people ; and the be^t
part of all people'

" Not always the best," said the Parson ; " but in a
way to give us inducemcxits enough to be true and honest
to our office."

" Clargy are a comfort to a body, surely, sir; an' it
didii' seem altogether riujlit after tlie news corned, tull we
could get our reverend gentleman to make a bit of a
pr'yer."

" We're all interested in the constable's news, if he's
got any," said the Attorney ; " and we may as well hear
it, together. How is it. Constable ? "

Gilpin had got Mrs. Calloran to tell her own story, thus:

" I niver got her Sure, 'twas Almighty God an' His
Blissed Mother brought her to me, like a fish to the hook,
in a manner. ' Glory be tc God ! ' sis I. * Sure, Her-
self brought her to this,* sis I, seein' 'twas the Daj' o' the
Consumption o' the Blissed Vargin, 'twas. Wasn't she
quite spint, beyant, by the fence ? an' what should I do,
but tuk her in me arms, and brought her in and laid her
an the bid ? ' Sure,' sis I, ' Lucy, dear, it's dyin' y'are ;
an' won't ye die in the true Church?' sis I. 'I've no
doubt,' sis she ; jest that way : ' I've no doubt,' sis she."

" But how could you get the doctor to her, before they
carried her away?" asked the constable, making no com-
mencs.

" Wasn't he at Barney Rorke's wife that got the sprain,
just beyant?" asked Mrs. Calloran. So, I called um.

fi:: I

MRS. CALLORAN'S REVELATIONS.

atleman,"

A-ttorney-
of us ; —
the best

'but in a
nd honest

ir; an' it
}d. tull we
I bit of a

vs, if he's
well hear

tory, thus :
an' His
the hook,
iure, Her-
aj' o' the
asn't she
luld I do,
,d laid her
in' y'are ;
'I've no
is she."
fore they
Icj no com-

le sprain,
lalled um.

5:1

" ' Good mornin, — no, but good evenun to ye, Dr. Mon;,'
sis I. ' I hope y'are will, sir,' sis I. ' I want yer opinion,'
Bis I, if ye'd be plased to walk this way. It's some one
that's dyun, sir,' sis I. With that he came in ('twas a
little dark, with the shawl pinned at the windy) : — ' Don't
go too near her face, for fear her breath's infractions,' sis
I. ' I didn't bring a hght, sir,' sis I. — ' Indeed, it's not
needed, Ma'am,' sis he. ' Isn't she spacheless and sinse-
less, Ma'am ? ' sis he. — ' That's it, sir,' sis I, ' exactly.' —
' An' did ye sind for the praste, Ma'am ? ' sis he. ' I
hadn't time, sir,' sis I, ' 'twas that sudden ; but I'd give
the world for um, this minit,' sis I. — ' Thin, Ma'am,' sis
he, 'my deliv-er-id opinion is she'll niver come out o'
this, without a mirycle af Holy Churrch,' sis he. An' with
that the door opened, just upan the very word, an' his
riverence. Father Nicholas, came in, an' found the way
she was ; an' I touid um the words she said about the
Churrcn ; an' he said she ought to have the best of care ;
an' he asked Dr. More, ' Had he anny dyne to give her
to quite her.' "

« And who's Dr. More ? "

" He's a good Catholic, thin," said Mrs. Calloran, de-
cidedly ; an' he's chape — "

" And a wise fellow," said Gilpin.

" Why wouldn't he be, then ? " said she, warmly.
" Himself as good as tould me tliat the rist o' thim knew
nothing ; his name's Doctlier Patrick McKillara IVIore ;
an' it's something to the Duke Gargyll, he is (only he's
a Scotsman and a heretic) ; an' he's called a veterin
surgeon (it's likely he's surgeon to the troops at Harbor
Grace, or something ; an', indeed, 'twould be a good day
they'd get a good Catholic Irishman to be surrgeon to the
British Army)."

1 i

ft '':^

I h

¥ t I

522

THE NEW PRIEST.

"Did you get her baptized by the Priest?" asked
Gilpin, blandly.

Mrs. Calloran stirred the kitchen fire : " I'm thinking
it's small good her baptism '11 be to her," she said, rather
aside.

" But you got her baptized ? "

Mrs. Calloran tliis time was silent.

" Well ! " said the constable, " I must say, I think you
and the Priest, and the nuns, too, (I don't say any thing
about your ' veterin surgeon to the British Army,' as ye
call him, — that's a horse-doctor, — for I suppose he's a
great l^ooby ;) I think you all deserve a good lesson, if
you didn't get it. I'd advise ye next time your neighbor's
child comes in your way, when she's lost, dont you steal
her."

" A simple lesson in morals that she'll do well to profit
by," said the Parson, commenting upon Gilpin's story
when it was finished.

" We ^-"^ow whom to look to if any more young peo-
ple disappear," said the Attorney ; " and have a key to
the method of kidnapping. Well, it was for fear of the
young lady running off with Mrs. Calloran's nurse-child,
it would seem ; I trust (if he's a good fellow, and there's
no great objection) that Mrs. Calloran will live to see
that feat performed."

Tlie father, quite absorbed with the circumstances of
his daughter's disappearance, which he now heard for the
first time, said to his pastor, —

" So that's how it was, sir ! There are strange things
in this world, surely ; but the good Lord's over all ! "

The party here separated ; and we leave the lawyer to
attend to his business at Castle-Bay, and the man of
prayer to go and present before God the family offering
in Skipper George's house.

t?" asked

LUCY'S HOME-COMING.

523

n thinking
said, rather

think you
T any thing
:my,' as ye
tose he's a
i lesson, if
• neighbor's
t you steal

ell to profit
Ipin's story

young peo-
e a key to
fear of the
nurse-chikl,
and there's
live to see

istances of
ard for the

mge things
rail!"
e lawyer to
he man of
lily offering

CHAPTER LVl.

LUCYS nOME-COMING.

EVERAL of the schooners, but not all of those
that had been, during the summer, at Labrador,
had come merrily home, with colors flying and all
Bail set, and muskets now and then fired off, and with now
and then a cheer from the happy c. ow. Tlie harbor was,
of course, fulicr of people and more astir with them, than
it had been for months ; the harbor-road was more fre-
quented, iind disused flakes were thronged.

The story of the strange happenings had been told and
retold, at flake and fireside, and now there was a general
longing and looking out for the home-coming of the " Spring
Bird " and Skipper George's long-lost daughter. The other
schooners, too, from Labrador, were more quietly expected.
The weather was very beautiful, and summer was gently
resting after its work done. The sky was blue as the
deep sea ; and just enough spotted with white clouds to
show its blueness fairly. The soft and pleasant wind
came over and through the inland woods, and blew
steadily out over the Bay, to the Fair Island and St.
John's.

On such an October day Mrs. Barre and Miss Dare
were walking together down the harbor, and drew near
the top of Whitmonday Hill. In outward appearance

524

THE NEW PRIEST.

f l;i

t.i 1

I i

'I'

'I »r

Mrs. Barre had not changed much ; but she was, perhaps,
more restless, and sought occupation more eagerly, now
that her great work was taken out of her liands, and she
had only to wait for the great issue of it. Her husband
must be, by this time, in Halifax, if nothing had happened
to him, and in a few weeks moi'e, after her long widow-
hood, she might hope to have him restored to her, from
whom she ought never to have been separated, in this
short and uncertain life. More than one long letter she
had got from him, in the few days that he was detained at
New-Harbor, before sailing ; and more than one she had
written to him ; and now they were cut off from each
other for a Avhile, with the prospect of soon joining their
lives together in one, not to be again separated, unless by
death.

The two ladies stopped on the top of Whitmonday
Hilj, and at the moment a white sail was crossing so
much of the Bay as was open to them where they stood.

" There's a schooner from Labrador for some harbor
up the Bay," said Miss Dare. " She's heading for Blaz-
ing Head, now ! " said she, again, as she watched the sight
which is always so interesting. " She's coming in here, de-
pend upon it ; they expect Abram Marchant next. Let's
wait and see her come in."

Mrs. Barre fixed her eyes upon the moving vessel in
silence, and an unusual glow of interest was given, even
to their deep seriousness ; the coming in of an absent
vessel had much meaning for her.

The fair, broad, white spread of canvas came steadily on ;
a most lovely sight to look upon. The wind, as we have
said, was blowing out of the harbor, and any vessel enter-
ing must tack within it. The sail in question stood steadily
across, without stirring tack or sheet, towards Blazing

s, perhaps,
gerly, now
>s, and she
;r husband
1 happened
»ng widow-
I her, from
;ed, in this
; letter she
detained at
le she had
from each
ining their
1, unless by

''hitmonday
crossing so
hey stood.
)me harbor
<r for Blaz-
id the sight
in here, de-
ext. Let's

vessel in
ven, even
an absent

teadily on ;
we have
Issel enter-
Id steadily
Is Blazing

LUCY'S HOME-COMING.

525

Head ; she was now fairly inside, and distant two or three
miles ; a fine, large craft, and handled beautifully. Now
she went about, her sails shook and flapped as she crossed
the wind, and then filled on the other tack, and showed all
her broadside.

"And what's the matter with the mosquito fleet?*
they're all coming in, as f{ist as they can row ; there must
be a death on board. No ; she's got all her colors Hy-

hig : It must be Lucy I it must be Lucy! That's

the ' Spring Bird ! ' There's Uncle's house-flag ; and

there's Lucy ! "

Mrs. Barre did not escape the excitement that ani-
mated her companion ; and tears, that had been so familiar
to her eyes, came quietly into them.

" It's very likely indeed," said she ; " it's time to look
for her."

" It is she ; I see her at this distance ; that white fig-
ure, standing near the stern. Ah ! my dear Mrs. Barre,
don't cry ; there'll be a happier return yet, before long ; '*
and she put her arm round her friend's waist.

Confident that she was right. Miss Dare began to wave
her handkerchief. Certainly, the punts were all coming
in for dear life ; while the brig, with her broad canvas,
held her way steadily and without a sound ; and presently,
when nearly opposite Frank's Cove, went deliberately and
most gracefully about again. This tack would bring her
well up the harbor, and she was soon gliding along, out-
side of Grannam's Noddle — her hull hidden by the island
— and soon she came out from behind it.

There was a woman's figure, in white, apart from the
dark figures of the sailors, and leaning against the quar-
ter-rail, on the lee-side ; and suddenly, as if making out
* The fleet of fishing-punts.

wm I

I'l

Kl'h''

..i

lii

ftSi

.52fi

THE NEW PRIEST.

I !.

the two ladies, she started, and made a gesture once or
twice, which might be an answer to Miss Dare's signal of
welcome.

"There! isn't that just like the little thing?" asked
Fanny, at the same time turning hurriedly up the harbor.
*' She isn't sobbing or fainting, though her heart's as full
as it can be ; but slie's too modest to return our greeting !
I'll venture to say she's looking the other way, or on the
deck. She's a dear girl ! — I must be first to tell her
father and mother, if I can ; shall we go up ? "

If Lucy was, indeed, too bashful to believe the signal
to be made for her, or that she was recognized, there was
some one else on board who was less timid. Captain
Nolesworth gallantly took off his hat and bowed, and
waved his hat about his head, in silent triumph. There
was a busy stir on board, as if the men were full of the
importance of the occasion ; and on land as well as on
the water, a sympathetic movement was taking place ; the
punts were coming in, at their utmost speed, dashing the
water from their eager bows and straining oars ; and men
and women were coming out of Frank's Cove, and over
the hill from Mad Cove, beyond, and out of every little
neighborhood. Mrs. Barre and Miss Dare, however,
were before them all ; and they hurried on, to keep their
advantage, while the brig went her way by water. The
Captain's voice could be heard distinctly, as he ordered the
men to "clew up the foresail," and then to "let that
cracky * bark." In obedience to the last order, a brass
ten-pounder stunned the air, and made the far-off hills to
echo ; and on came the brig, the smoke rolling off, and
breaking up to leeward.

Miss Dare reached the top of the ridge that bounded
* A " cracky," in Newfoundland, is a little dog.

LUCY'S HOME-COMING.

527

5 once or
3 signal of

?" asked
lie harbor,
rt's as full
greeting 1
or on the
;o tell her

the signal

there was

Captain

lowed, and

»h. There

full of the

well as on

place; the

ashing the

; and men
;, and over
Bvery little
however,

?eep their
ater. The
Drdered the
"let that
ler, a brass

•off hills to

ng off, and

at bounded

og.

Skipper George's little meadow, before there was much
stir in that neighborhood, and while the oblique course of
the brig had carried her over towards Sandy-Harbor, a
half mile or so farther off than when opposite Whitmon-
duy Hill.

Mrs. Barbury, who had been, apparently, standing on
a rock a little back from the edge of the ridge, came
wildly down, as the young lady went up, staying a mo-
ment to ask, " Is it Lucy, Miss Dare ? " and saying that
" he knew it the \e,Yy first gleam he saw of the brig's can-
vas." She then ran on, up the harbor, to be at the stage-
head before the vessel got there.

Mi-.s Dare went, hastily, a little farther towards the
old planter's house, but stopped before reaching it, and
turned back. Who can tell a father's heart, that has not
one ? She could see Skipper George on his knees, by
the bedside, in the little room. He had stayed at home
that day, for some reason of his own ; and Janie by him.

With another tack the brig stood over for Mr. Wer-
ner's stage, and again fired a gun. The whole harbor,
now% was alive ; and from every quarter people were
walking and running, (little ones trying to keep up with
their mothers and elders,) towards Mr. Worner's premises.

" We'd better hold back a little, I suppose," said Miss
Dare, as she joined Mrs. Barre again ; " though I should
like to see her when she first touches land, and hear the
first word she speaks."

Up the harbor went the brig and the boats, by water ;
and up and down the harbor went the people from the
different directions, toward the same point, — Mr. Worner's
stage. Mrs. Barre's chamber-window commanded a view,
over Mr. Naughton's storehouse, of Messrs. Worner,
Grose &> Co.'s premises, which were half a quai-ter of a

i':

r',' i

i) I

n 1 , 1

a J! h

!: I

.'328

THE NEW PRIEST.

mile beyond ; and the two ladies stationed themselves at
the window.

The punts were getting in ; the brig was drawing up,
taking off sail after sail ; the people were hurrying, and
there was a sound of many voices. The ladies did not
stay long at the vyindow ; but they, too, followed the cur-
rent of life up to the place where the brig was expected.

"I haven't seen Skipper George go by," said Miss
Dare. " I hope it won't be too much for him."

Tl was attempied to make way for the h»dics; and it
would have been do!ie, — though slow ly and hnrdly, — but
such was the crowd all over the stage, that they sought
refuge in one of the stores, and took their stand at a win-
dow in the loft. Never was there such a time m Peter-
port ; never, but at the funeral of the four Barburys had
there been such a crowd withii? men's memory. The
stage was covered ; the neighboring flakes were covered ;
the boats floated full ; children cried to be lifted up ; peo-
ple stood a-tiptoe ; eyes were straining ; faces were flushed
and eager, — it seemed as if the blood would scarcely keep
within its vessels. Tlie men on board the brig went
nimbly about their work in perfect silence ; every order
came distinctly to land. All the lower sails were out of
the way ; jib, foretopmast-stay-sail, foresail, mainsail,
spanker ; but there was no womr.n on deck. The Captain
calhxl out, —

" We've got her, Mrs. Barbury, all safe ! "

" Thank God ! " cried the mother, who was at the out-
most verge of the stage ; and, before the wordii had gone
from lier, there went up a minglvjd shout and cry from
men, women, and children. The brig had come up into the
wind, and again the ten-pounder flashed and roared, and
the smoke rolled away aft. Women shook hands with one

■ ^; ■

LUCY'S HOME-COMING.

529

ilvcri at

ing up,
ng, and
did not
he cur-
cpected.
id Miss

; and it
ly,— but
y sought
It a win-
n Peter-
iryg had
•y. The
covered ;
pp; peo-
e flushed
ely keep
12 went
ry order
ire out of
mainsail,
Captain

the out-
lad gone
I or) from
into the
ired, and
I with one

another and wept ; brighl tears were in Miss Dare's beau-
tiful eyes, and tears run down Mrs. BaiTe's pale, soft
ch(!ek. Tiien Jesse Hill's bluff voice was heard (from
the water, of course) : —

" I'll take a line * ashore for *ee, Cap'n Noseward."

" Thank 'ee, Mr. liarbury," answered the captain ;
" I'd best bring up in the stream. Somebody bring the
father and mother aboard ; will ye ? "

Down went the anchor with a splash, and rattling of
chain ; and the brig's voyage was, in a moment, at an
end.

Two boats were most active and conspicuous, among
the many that floated about the vessel, and the two, at
the captain's word, drew near the stage. In one Jesse
Hill's fur cap and bright hair predominated, astern, and
Isaac Maffcn held the chief oar ; the other was occupied
by young men, and was steered by a silent young man,
that was, probably, not unobserved this day, — James
Urston.

The latter rather held back, and yielded precedence to
Jesse ; and Jesse, coming up to the stage, and having in-
quired and called for his Uncle George, without success,
took in the mother, and made all speed for the vessel's
side. Captain Nolesworth had her hoisted in, man-of-
war fashion, and, in an instant, the daughter and mother
were in each other's arms. The oaptain, by way of occu-
pying the time, called out, —

" Now, hojr, we'll change work, and try how this air
taster, after being on sea so long. Let's have three
cheers ! and you. Ghost, set the pitch."

The biggest man among the crew stood forth, sheep-
ishly, pushed forward by his laughing fellows ; but,

* A rope.
84

r)3o

THE NEW PKIEST.

whether lie gave the j)ltch or not, tliree hearty seamen*8
clieers were given by the crew ; an irregular, prolonged
cheering came from the land.

After a short time allowed, the kindly neighbors began
to ask abundant questions, across the water, to Jesse,
who kept his place in the punt at the brig's side, as to
whether she " was hearty," and " looked as she used to,"
and so forth ; in answer to which Jesse once or twice re-
peated that he had not seen her, and they must be patient
a little. Meantime, Jesse wni busy holding communica-
tions with the occupants of several punts near hira, which
set off, this way and that, like adjutants on a review day.
It was soon understood that Skipper George's daughter
was to be escorted home with a public demonstration.
The field for every thing of that sort, among our fisher-
men, is the water ; and so there was a general bustle to
get and bring into service whatever boat was capable of
swimming.

Skipper George was understood to be at home ; and it
was also understood that the Parson had gone down to him.

Jeise himself left his post and hurried over to Mrs.
Barre and Miss Dare, to ask whether " the ladies 'ould
be so well-plased to give the people the honor of their
company in a bit of a possession that was going to be
down harbor. Cap'n ISIosewood," he said, "was going in
'e's boat, and so was Abram Frank, in Mr. Worner's ; and
e'er a one would be clear proud to take they." Having
gained their consent, he hurried back, and in a minute or
two, had passed through the crowd of small craft, and was
at the brig's quarter again. James Urston's boat was
there, and his drew up alongside of it.

When Lucy appeared at the vessel's side, the welcome
given her was enthusiastic. Jesse regarded liis wonderful

I '. ■

seamen s
rolonged

)rs began
to Jesse,
ide, as to
used to,"
twice re-
)e patient
tnmunica-
im, which
view day.
daughter
)nstration.
lur fisher-
. bustle to
capable of

le ; and it
vvn to him.
r to Mrs.
adies 'ould
>r of their
)ing to be
s going in
•ner's ; and
Having

minute or
ft, and was

boat was

e welcome
wonderful

LUCY'S 1

[lOME-COMING.

531

cousin

1 as a

being

above

liis

understanding ;

and

cvery-

body

lield

her

miK'li

the

same estiniation; and she

never

lool^ed more

bright

and

iiandsotne than

now

She

was rather stouter than she had ibrmerly been ; her vycs
ghmeed, and iier clieeks glowed, and her hhi^k liair
floated, as they used, and a pretty little straw boimet,
with bright red about it, made her look sweetly. She
glanced down at the two boats, and over all the glad
faces everywhere and smiled and blushed. The men all
had their hats off, and the women waved their hands, or
handkerchiefs, and words of welcome came fj'om every
side. No one could have gone through a studied part so
beautifully as she went through hers ; and every turn of her
head and movement of her body, brought forth new shouts
from her excited neighbors. Her eyes came back over
the same course that they had gone, and passed, last, over
the two boats just below her.

Mrs. Barbury was received with much state by her
nephew, and escorted to a seat; and then Lucy, on whom
all eyes were fixed, was hoisted over the side, and lowered
down the little distance from the rail to the level of the
punts. Somehow, a slight side-motion was given to the
chair; more than one hand was reached towards her;
she gave her hand and set her feet, without looking ; —
but it was into James Urston's boat that she went.

" She's mistook," said Jesse, to whom the programme
of his " Possession " was the foremost thing, and who did
not, perhaps, (like many other ritualists,) see how things
would go on, unless according to the programme.

"No, no, Mr. Barbury," said Captain Nolesworth,
laughing, "the ladies know what they're about. That
must be the young priest we heard of It's my opinion
she's meant to take her passage in his boat.'*

r)32

THE NEW PRIEST.

IP 1,1:

^■:;i;ii

,Hl

•](;' ■;

At this, thn public, wlio are f^onomlly quick-witted and
quick-licurted in such mattrrs, (o(»k it up, and gave
"three cheers for young Mr. Urston."

The young man received the distinction and tlie gratu-
lation in moiiest silence; Lucy bhislied deeply; and Jesse
reconciled liimself to circumstances.

"Where's Mr. Piper?" cried the chief manager of the
" possession." A voluntary flourish, on the fiddle, an-
swered the question, and showed that the worthy Irish-
man knew what faculty made his company most valuable.

Without loss of time, in marshalling the array, the
several boats fell in ; the music, under Billy Bow's pilot-
age, in advance, in the centre column ; Jesse following,
with a large ensign fastened to a boat-hook, and supported
by two men, — which ensign there was not wind enough
to spread ; — then Lucy, in young Urston's boat ; and

then whoever came next, in a long row, while on

each side was a parallel line of punts, keeping even way.
The fiddle struck up the National Anthem, and continued
to fill a part of the air with melody ; the oars hurled back
the water, and bravely the procession swept on, not far
from shore ; muskets now and then, and here and there,
breaking forth into joy. The water gleamed and glanced,
and the very cliffs seemed glad, — taking up and saying
over the sounds frorri every side.

At Marchants' Cove, an unexpected interruption came.
It had been Jesse Barbury's plan to go down round the
island, and come back to this cove again ; but, as they
reached it, Lucy exclaimed " There's Father ! " and the
punt that bore her, as instantly as if it were moved by her
mere will, was urged towards the land, — breaking out of
the j)rocession. Soon she cried, " Oli ! little Janie ! "
The father stood upon the beach, beneath a ilak(i, gaz-

itted and
iid gave

he gratii-
md Jesse

er of the
ddle, an-
hy Irish-
valuable,
rray, the
iw's pilot-
following,
supported
d enough
oat ; and
while on
iven way.
continued
rled back
1, not far
md there,
I glanced,
id saying

ion came,
round the
t, as they
and the
sd by her
ig out of
mie!"
lak(i, gaz-

LUCY'S IIOME-COMINO.

533

ing, with fixed and steady look, upon his child. She rose,
as the boat drew near, and he walked into the water, to
his knees, to meet her. Several of tiie young men turned
awtiy, as the brave old iisherman o{)ened his arms, and
she embraced him and leaned upon his neck. lie lifted
her up, as wiieu she was a ehihl. Janie gazed, in awo.

"I'm too heavy for you, lather," Lucy said.j

"Ah! my dear maid," he answered, "ef 'ee could only
know how light 'ee make mv heart ! " and he bore her
away to land, as if she had been an infant; and then,
holding her hand in his, he turned to his neighbors, and
baring his head, said, —

" I tliank 'ee kindly, friends, for all your goodness :
and I humbly thank my IJest Friend, for all 'E's good-
ness." He tiien bowed his head to his breast.

What may have prevented the people generally from
noticing Skipper George, until his child's (piick eye dis-
covered him, and her hurried words proclaimed him, was
the approach of a punt, from the direction of Sandy
Harbor, which now came up ; (little Janie still gazing.)

" Wall, I guess ye may's well hold on, Mr. Kames,
'thout you mean to run somebody down," said one of the
two in it to his companion. " What's to pay, Mr. Hill ?"
(to Jesse.) "Lucy c'me home? 'S that her? Ye don't
say ! Wall she's kind 'o left ye, I guess, hasn't she ? b't
we c'n go on 'th the meetin'. Tell ye what's the right
thing : go to work 'n' organize, 'n' pass s'me res'lutions, 'n
'spur o' the moment."

As Mr. Bangs spoke, the boats had gathered round ;
their course being interrupted, and he was the centre of
a large flotilla. '

" Sh' didn't b'come a Papist, I b'lieve ? 'tain't th' fashion,
jest now, 't seems."

t ^ i I .

534

THE NEW PRIEST.

i> !:

n > (

'',. i

" Without they haves a miracle to convart 'em, Mr.
Banks," said Billy Bow.

" Wall, the's no tellin' 'bout mirycles," answered Mr
Bangs; " b't 's I's sayin', I guess ye'd better give Mrs.
Barberry, there, her choice, whether she'd ruther stay t'
the proceedings, or go right home. The's no 'bjection,
under the broad canopy, t' havin' ladies : — fact, they're 'n
addition."

Notwithstanding Mr. Bangs's intimation, however, Mrs.
Barbury had no wish to enjoy that particular privilege of
her sex, in being an addition to the meeting, and Jesse
prepared to turn his prow to tl e beach.

"'S goin' t' pr'pose 't Mr. Barberry, ('r Mr. Hill,)
there, sh'd take the chiJr and preside," said Mr. Bangs.
" Miglit let Mr. Urston take Mrs. Bar-berry, now his
hand's in, 'f the's no 'bjection ;- -or, I gue?s we better
make the pr'ceedin's short. Loo}^ a'here ; you jest take
the chair, Mr. Barberry," said he, aside ; then to the mul-
titude : " 'F it be yer minds, please t' signify it ; — 'tis a
unanimous vote ! " (not an individual saying or doing any
thing whatever except himself,) — " There, ye saw how
I did it," said he again, as prompter, to Jesse ; " 's no
matter 'bout a chair, ye know. — Look a'here, Mr. Frank,'*
he continued, to Billy Bow, " Guess you'd better move
first res'lution."

" Which w'y'll he move, Mr. Banks ? " inquired Jesse,
anxious to dischargG his part.

" Oh ! ain't any of ye used to it ; wall, shall have to
move, myself ; you say you second me, Mr. Frank ; and
then you ask 'em 'f 't's their minds, Mr. Hill. Mr. Chair-
man, I move " (the women and other on-lookers

were very much entertained and astonished,) "I move
you, sir, that ' We cannot repress the unspeakable emotions

MBWrfiiri"! » ■

LUCY'S HOME-COMING.

535

id, Mr.

red Mr
ve Mrs.

r stay t'
bjection,
lev're 'n

er, Mrs.
ilege of
id Jesse

r. Hill,)
'. Bangs,
now his
e better
jest take
the mul-
; — 'tis a
oing any
saw how
" 's no
Frank,"
er move

id Jesse,

have to
nk ; and
r. Chair-
i-lookers
I move
amotions

with which we view this inscrutable dispensation.'

That's one way the' have o' doiri' it."

While these lofty and appropriate words and senti-
ments were addressed to him, the chairman gazed in ad-
miration at the utterer, and from him cast glances, to
either side, at the audience, of whom some of the women
were a good deal amused, as if it were fun,

" Guess we m't 's well stop there, f ' the present," said
the mover : " Wunt ye jest try that, first ? "

Jesse scratched his head, in the sight of all the people,
and Mr. Bangs began prompting him, in a lower voice,
distinctly audible everywhere. The chairman, also, began
to repeat after him, as follows : — »

" Mr. Banks says ' 'e can't express his unspeakable

motions

ind then broke.

" Do 'ee mean to say we're clear proud, Mr. Banks ? "
asked he. " Ef 'ce do, we'll s'y so ; " and, turning to the
public, said : '' Ef we're glad over she coming back,
please to show it. Hurray ! "

" Hurray ! " shouted the people, male and female.

" It is an annual vote ! " said the chairman. " There,
Mr. Banks ! "

The meeting di -persed, and left the water to the gentle
wind and sunshine ; and a sweet sight was seen on land ;
how Lucy went to meet and how she met her pastor :
but would not let go her father's hand ; then how prettily
she looked, as Mrs. Barre and Miss Dare welcomed and
kissed her; and then how prettily she lingered to meet
and greet her neighbors, but pretty as anything was her
way with Janie, who held her sister's gown, and asked, —

" Where'bouts you come from ? You go'n to stay in
our house?''

:)'M

TIIK NKW I'KIKST.

CHAPTER LVII.

FATHER DE BUIe's LAST INTEKVIEW WITH FATHER

TERENCE.

)ONG years had passed to Mrs. Barre : but, per-
^' haps, these weeks Avere longer ; for waiting hope
is not the same as waiting expectation. Certainly,
she seemed to be wasting under it ; though she threw her-
self into the joy of th(; liarbor at Lucy's coming back.

October went by, and November came and was going
by. The season had been a fine, open, bright one ; and
gome young jieoph^ from Labrador, had seen, as they
said, "the color of their own country" for the first time in
their lives, to their remembrance ; somi^ fhu'ries of snow
came about the first of November, and since, but not
much cold.

Another person was waiting and looking out, — perhaps
with a father's fondness, (but that is not a wife's,) for Mr.
De Brie's return : it was Father Terence.

He had left a most urgcMit message, through a Boman
Catholic merchant of New Harbor, desiring ]\[r. De Brie
to wait, just a few hours, at that place, until Father Ter-
ence could see him ; and had also j)rovided (to the as-
tonishment of the fishermen,) for news of the vessel to be
brought him from the fishing-ground if she passed by day-
bght. On Saturday, the twenty ninlh <lay o! November,
early in the morning, the news came into Bay-Harbor,

Ash

A LAST INTKUVIKW.

537

FATHER

but, per-
il o; liope
lertainly,
rcw lier-
back.
as goinj:^
3ne; aiul
as thoy
st time in
of snow
but not

— ])erhaps
) lor Ur.

a Komaii
Do Uric
It her Ter-
o the as-
ssel to be
(I by (hiy-
^^oveniber,
y -Harbor,

that Mr. Oldliniuc's schooner was slandiup; across Con-
ception lo Triiiily l>My.

It Iiad been chilly, rainy wcjither, soakinijj every thinfr,
for two (Inys ; !in<l this t\;\y wms a dull, <l!irk one, covered
with lenden clouds: very little wind blowin;:;.

Father Terence start<'d ininicdiat<dy to cross the l>ar-
reiis; havin^ij bel'oi'e enuj.'i^cd a stout horse, and tMkin;»
two "guides ; one of whom (Mike Ileunni, the l*et<'rporl
landlord.) was also mounted. INIr. Duir^Mn liad set out
early, on foot, and gained a couple of miles, or so, upon
the riders.

Tla; good Priest, as he had Ixmmi urgent in his jirepar-
ations, so was eager on the way. The smooth road he
got over at a good rate, and entered, manfully, upon the
broken hohbly path among tlu^ ston(^s and stunte(l tirs, and
over the moss and morasses, (ireat mo|)s of thickly-
matted cver^re<'n l)oii<i;hs swal)l"'d against liim, and some-
times struck him a seven; blow, as his great beast, siu'^ed
against them, and then let th«'m slip from his shoulder.
Down })reci|)itous leaps, and, in lik(! manner, up to the
top of low rocks; then straining and rolling from side to
side, as the beast drew oiw^ hoof after another out of a
little patch of meadow, sofj:;;j:;y with the I'ain, Father Ter-
ence made; his way, silently occupied with his thouj»;hts ;
exce[)t when, 0(!casionally, he became anxious lest his horse
should hurt himsidf in the rough and miry path. New-
foundland horses are used to ways of that sort ; and the
one that he now nxh', though not familiar with the l>ar-
rens, got on very fairly. Between the ponds, however,
there are wider meadows ; and Fatlusr Tenmce entering,
fearless, upon the first of these, found his horse, after a
few steps and a heavy jum[), or two, sinking down to the
Baddle-girths. His mounted guide, (a small man, on a

i M

I i

538

THE NEW PRIEST.

:kt-: V

i''.i

|V/ll I

"i :

nimble little pony,) was going over it like a duck or sea-

gull.

The Priest dismounted instantly, and summoned liis
two attendants to his aid.

" I think he's gettin' someway tired," said he, " his feet's
that heavy."

" The ground's very saft. Father Tirence, and the harse
is too big an* solid for it," said Mike Henran, of Peter-
port, seizing the bridle and lifting the foundering horse's
head. This operation seemed like working him on a
pivot ; for, as his head came up, his haunches went slowly
down. Mr. Duggan laid hold of his tail, and lifted.
The worthy Priest anxiously surveyed the operation.

To Henran's criticism upon the qualities of his bor-
rowed steed, he assented ; saying, " Indeed he's not that
light and easy goin' Pishgrew was."

He looked on again.

" I think ye'U never be able to carry him," added

Father Terence, whose experience with quadrupeds had
been both slight and short.

The men knew what they were doing. " I thought Fd
start um aff this saft place," said ^lenran, " the way he
could rest, a bit ; and then we'd try and have him out.
Pull um over, on his side, then, you. Dug' n ! " and he
held the poor beast's nose down, to prevent his plunging,
and the two men together got him partly on his side, and
then Duggan took the saddle off from him.

" But if the body of him goes in," suggested the Priesi,
as he saw their manoeuvre, " sure it'll be harder, again,
getting it out, towards having his legs, only, in it ; " for
the Father saw, at a glance, that four slender separate legs,
each having special muscles of its own, and having flex-
ible joints, too, could be more easily extracted from the

iimsukimtutiitm^mMmmimaumt^r*^

ek or sea-

loned Ilia

' his feet's

[ the harse
of Peter-
nor horse's
him on a
ent slowly
md lifted,
peration.
)f his bor-
I's not that

im," added
upeds had

thought rd
the way he

I him out.

1 " and he
s plunging,
is side, and

the Priest,
•der, again,
in it;" for

parate legs,
aving flex-
i from the

A LAST INTERVIEW.

539

slough, than a huge, round carcass, clumsy and heavy,
and without joints, — if it should once happen to get in,
and under tlie mud.

" But his body's too big, Father Terence," said Hen-
ran, who was no new hand at this sort of thing ; " do ye
see the holes iv his legs isn't wide enough to take it
in."

*' Do you mean to leave him, then ? " inquired the
Priest. " I'm not afraid of him running away ; but I
think it's a cold place for him. I think he's fast, there."

" Faith, then, savin yer reverence's presence. Father
Tirence, I'm thinking it's a fast he'd niver break." said
Duggan, who had an Irish readiness at a pun. " We'll
start um up a bit, after a little, and try can we turn um
round, th'other way."

" But liow will he get on, with his hind legs better than
his fore ones ? " inquired the good Father again, very
naturally wondering what advantage there could be in
trying the horse backwards.

" We'll have to get um out iv it, ahltogether," said
Henran, " and il's the shortest way back."

" But won't we be able to go over ? " asked Father
Terence anxiously, for he was eager to be at the end of
his journey.

" Dug'n'll be to take um round. Father Terence ; and
if ye're hurried, I'm thinkin' we'd best lave um toDug'n,
ahltogether, for it'll be the same wid every saft place we
come to. The wind's coming round cold ; but it'll only
make it the worse for him breakin' through, for it'll cut
up his legs and hurt um badly. 'Twill be hard enough,
in three or four hours from this, that ye might take all
the horses that ever was over, an' they'd niver lay a
mark an it."

'! ni )

^il

540

THE NEW PRIEST.

1 (

M' I'''

' .11

It was slow and hard work getting the horse out.
They edged liini round, after he liad rested, and then
lifting him at botli ends, urged liiin until, with furious
struggUng, — lying down and resting now and then, — he
got, by little and little, out to the firm ground, trembling
at first all over, and scarce able to stand.

Father Terence adopted the advice, and, at the same
time, declined Henran's offer of his own beast ; being, as he
thought, too big for him to carry, and liis late experience
having, perhaps, made him loth to take the charge of such
a thing. So they budged on foot: licnran leading his
horse, an arrangement which was not the least comfortable
that they could make ; for the wind began to come very
bitterly cold, and the exercise kept their blood from being
chilled. The little trees, and bushes, and moss, grew dry
very fast in the cold wind, and gave them liitle trouble;
but the walk is a long one, and the good Priest was
sorely fagged out by the time he trudged into New-
Harbor. It is a hard enough journey now ; it was a
worse way, years ago.

The schooner was beating up the bay against the wind
that had so lately come round, and begun to make itself
felt ; and Father T(irence seemed to lose all feeling of
fatigue, and was out watching more eagerly than the
merchant himself, " Qui vldit mare turgidum, et Infames
scopnios, Acroceraunea" * who knew all the danger that
might come with a heavy blow, if the weather should turn
out thick.

The weather cleared off fairly, growing colder all the
while. The schooner came into the harbor (which is on
the west, popularly called the south-^hore of Trinity Bay)
finely, early in the afternoon ; and was made safely ' fast '

* HoR. 0. I. 3. 19, 20. Who has seen the sea swelling, and (Rocks
of ill name) tlie Acroceraunia.

A LAST INTERVIEW.

541

at her stage. The first person that jumped ashore was
Mr. De Brie : grave-looking, bearing marks of the suffer-
ing and struggles that he had gone through ; but strong
and quick, and shaking himself to feel free from the irk-
some constraint of the little vessel. Father Terence
withdrew out of sight a few moments before the vessel
got in.

" Now I must get a guide straight over to Castle-Bay,"
said JMr. De Brie, after a cordial greeting to the merchant ;
** for I must be there at church to-morrow, God willing."

" There's a man just starting," said Mr. Oldhame ; '• for
Castle-Bay, too ; but Father O'Toole is waiting to see
you ; and has been on the look-out for you for an hour
and more. He came across on purpose, I think."

A shade of regret passed over Mr. De Brie's face ; and
he turned a glance of longing and disappointment toward
the woods and Barrens that lay between him and the
end of a long separation, and wretcliedness, and wrong.
He said, " Perhaps he'd take this over for me, and
leave it at the schoolmaster's ; I'll follow as soon as I
may." He took a thick letter from his pocket, as he
spoke, and tearing it open, wrote a few words with his
pencil inside, and handed it to Mr. Oldhame, who prom-
ised to seal and send it. His eyes then turned for an
instant upward ; and then he asked where Father Terence
was, and (Mr. Oldhame not being able to say) sought the
worthy old gentleman in the merchant's house.

Father Terence's feelinjz: was so ";re;\t at the first mo-
ment of meeting as to expFain his liaving withdrawn, that
he might have the interview in private and unobserved.
Mr. De Brie, also, was very much affected. The old
Priest took the younger man's hand in both his own, and
looked upon him fatherly, while his words sought vainly
for utterance.

IIB.P.

1 1

i. .

m ii

,:•'■ i

542

THE irEVV rniEST.

'!)}h

1 i'

" Y'arc welcome home anjain ! " he said, when he re-
covered himself, " Y'are welcome home ! Come home
altogether, now ! " and as he said these words in a tender,
pleading tone of voice, he gently drew the hand he held,
as if in illustration.

"Ah ! Father Terence," said Mr. Do Brie, "thank you,
as I always shall tliank you, for the kindness I have always
had from you ! Thank you ; but I hav^ found my home
at last. I am at home once r < re."

The old Priest waL, evidci^;'; i<;<iri3d. He still held
the hand, and drew Mr. De I j-ie i'^ a ciitir himself insist-
ing upon standing.

" He's away now," he continued, " an' what's to hinder
you coming back ? 'Twould have been a good job if he'd
never been in it at all."

" You mean Mr. Crampton, I suppose ? "

" Yes ; just Crampton ; he's off with himself for
good."

"Ah ! but Father Terence, it matters nothing to me
whether he com.es or goes," answered Mr. De Brie.

Father Terence hesitafid ; but soon said urgently, —

" But don't speak till ye'ii hear what I say. I'm well
aware of the provocation ye had off him ; and, indeed,
that's not the worst of him ; — I wish it was. Sister
Frances, the poor, unhappy creature, has come back ; I
suppose ye heard. We won't talk about that. God have
mercy on us ! — But ye'll be shot of him now, and can
just take yer time quite and easy with the old man that
won't quarrel with ye." *

" If you'll let me say a word to that. Father Terence ; —
love for you would have drawn me more than dislike of
him would have driven me away. It was no personal
question with me, as I always said. If \te had been like

A LAST INTERVIEW.

543

}n lie re-

rne home

a tender,

J he held,

liank you,
ve always
my home

still held
5elf insist-
to hinder
job if he'd

mself for

ing to me
5rie.
ently, —

I'm well
id, indeed,
5. Sister
e back ; I
God have
V, and can

man that

erence ; —

dislike of

personal

been like

you, or if he had been like an angel, it would have made
no difference : nor, on tlie other hand, if you had been
like him."

INIr. Dc ' .'ie spoke under retraiut. The old Priest
looked in liis vUce, while he spoke, and listened. .pi)arently ;
but seemed lot to hear, as if he were occuf)ied with liis
ov,n thougl'.Ls. Looking still tenderly m his face, he pres-
euily spoke in a soothing voice : —

'' Your mind's got disturbed and troubled with thoughts,
and ye want to rest. Come and help me, then, for a
little, and we'll bring you round, with the help of God.
Dunne '11 be Jiere for the morrow, in case of me being
away."

" No, Father," answered the otlier, still speaking con-
strainedly, " I can't do that work again. — I don't know
that, to God, my life's work may not be finished, in what
I have ju' ; done."

" Come and rest, then, and let your mind settle ; and
I'll give you the best rooms in tiie place. You should
have his, only it wouldn't be that pleasant ; but the big
room up stairs, and the one I called my library, you
know ; and you shall take your own way, just."

As he mentioned the " library," ho forced a smile into
the midst of the sadness of his face ; but did not persist in
the effort it cost him. His honest features took again
their look of affectionate anxiety and distress.

" Ye're doubtful and troubled ; and ye shall do nothing
at all but just rest."

" The doubts are gone, and the struggle is over. Father
Terence, forever."

"Ah ! That's good, then ; ye en i take it coolly. Ye
shall have your own time, and nobody'll stir ye. — That's
good," said the kind-hearted old man.

544

THE Nr.W PRIEST.

N ■ 1

"I trust I shall never ii'l in the respect and gratitude
I have always felt for you, Father Terence, and owe
you," answered iMr. De Brie, speaking as if the word.s
were not what he had in his mind to say ; but as if he
were loth to come to the point.

" Why would ye, then ? Indeed ye never did ; an*
we'll get on better, now, than we did," said the old Priest ;
but with a hesitation as if he, too, felt that something was
behind.

" My dear Father Terence," said Mr. De Brie, and

paused.

Father Terence hastened to interrupt him.

" Y'are tired ; an' how could ye help it, indeed, an' you
just off the water ? Let's see for a bit to eat, beyond,
at Hickson's," said he ; and then, recalling in a moment
the mutual obligations of hospitality, which none knew
better than he, with his Irish heart, he said " No ; but we
won't be that rude to Mr. Oldhame here, that we'd go out
of his house for something to eat. Ye'll be the better of
it; an' I'll tell him."

But there Avas evidently to be an explanation, and
Father Terence doubtless saw it. Mr. De Brie rose to
his feet, saying, —

" You must not make me sit, my good Father, while you
stand. I fear I shall give you pain by wdiat I am going
to say ; but I am sure you would rather know the exact
truth : — I have made open profession of my faith in tL. -
presence of the English bishop at Halifax."

" And have ye left the old Church, then ? " asked
Father Terence, very sadly ; not casting off but letting
go the hand that he had been holding from the first.
" Ye can't have done it ! " and, as he spoke, he held his
hands together, upward.

A LAST INTEUVIiaV.

545

atitude

id owe

words

s if he

id: an'
Priest ;
ng was

rie, and

an you
beyond,
moment
le knew
; but we
d go out
Btter of

on, and
rose to

hile you
n going
le exact
in tL

asked
letting

he first.

held hig

"Ah! Father, the Church that bxs not only the old
priesthood, but the old faith, and the old worship, and the
old ways, is the old Cliuroh ; — but I don't want to .xpcak
of that ; I only want to say that it is done, Father
Terenv. -. ! Doubt and delay ani ended ; and my solemn,
jiublic ai t has been made. — 1 am in the Old Way, forever-
more, until after tlie Day of Judgment." In his turn,
IMr. D«i Brie gently took Father Terence 's hands in his
own ; and the old m;ui let tliijrn be held ; but sat down in
the chair, into v»hi'.'h he had before urged his companion.
He shook his head, sadly, and tlien fixed his look upon
the oth(;r's face, and ke{)t it there, so long, and with such
an expression of disa{)pointment and bereavement, that it
seemed to go to the yoiuiger man's heart, for the tears
came to his nyaA.

The old Priest drew away one hand, and smoothed his
decent locks behind ; and presently drew the other slowly
away, also, and laid one on each knee. He looked, now,
neither at his companion nor any thing ; but his honest,
homely features worked with the feelings of disappoint-
ment and hopelessness which he strove to repress, but the
witness of which he did not, or could not hide. Then he
drew up toward the fire.

" It's no use me saying more ! " he said. " I didn't
think ye'd have done it ! I didn't think it ! — Isn't it
growing colder ? I think it is."

In spite of these last words, which implied that the sad
business which had brought him over, and was so near his
heart was nov/ abandoned, his face still showed that his
heart, had not at all got rid of it.

" It has grown winter, out of doors, but you won't grow
colder, Father Terence. You don't believe one like me to
be a child of the Devil ; or think that he can't be saved."

or:

il'il

546

TIIK NEW rUIKST.

W. ' !

" I don't say for tlwit," said the old Priost, who, wlicther
he assert (3(1 it or not, had never, in his liCe, been any thing
but liberal and charitable; " but to leave being a priest,
when ye were consecrated and set apart to it!"

— " I5ut I couldn't keep on with it, when my faith in
that church was gone," said tlu; other, gently.

'• I suppose not," said Fatlier Terence, rising and going
to the window, his eyes fairly wetted with tfiars.

" I do not expect to be again intrusted with a priest's
work," said his companion ; " nor do I wish it. I am
satisfied to work out my salvation as a private? man, since
God so wills it. For the highest and happiest work that
man can do on earth, I am not fit ; I have shown it."

It was time to break uj) the interview, which could not
grow less painful by being prolonged ; but Mv, De Brie
stood still, and waited for Father Terence's time. The
old gentl(»man stood before the window for a good while,
and moved uneasily, from time to time, as if engaged with
his own feelings.

" But must ye go ou^ altogether ? " he asked, at
length.

" I couldn't help it. I cannot wish it otherwise."

Father Terence turned round.

" Well, then, 1 believe ye've acted honestly," said he,
again putting out his hand, which his companion came
forward and grasped, heartily, and with much feetin^j.
" May ye never be the worse of it ! — Stay ! " said he,
correcting himself; "what's to hinder me saying 'God
guide ye ! ' anny way ? " — He hesitated, and then said,
" and bless you, and bring ye right ! "

Mr. De Brie put the big, kind hand, that he held, to his
lips, and kissed it ; and then opened the door, and they
joined Mr. Oldhnme.

nf : <irj

A LAST INTEUVIEW.

ry\7

whether
r»y thing
a priest,

' faith in

nd goinjr

a priest's
1 am
lan, sinee
vork that
1 it.

could not
De Brie
tie. The
)0(1 while,
aged with

The aftfU'noon had hern wearing away ; the wind was
hlowing cold, and heavy clouds were drifting in the sky.

" The !iian tliat tooi< tli(! little parcel for nic, must
ho [)rct(y well over, hy this time, prohahly," said Mr.
Do Uric to the merchant, exerting himself to speak
ciieerfully.

" Yes, I think he's near Castle-Bay, sir ; and I'm glad
of it ; for we're likely to have sprawls of snow, before
long, I think,"

" There's no danger in the woods ? "

" Not so much ; but on the Barrens it isn't safe even
for an old hand."

Father Terence did his best to be in good spirits, that
evening, having accepted the merchant's invitation to
stay ; but he was not cheerful, after all. Mr. De Brie
was silent, and went often to the window or the door, and
looked I'orth upon the night. Early, he and the rest
bade each other "Good iiiiilit!"

I»i

asked, at

ise."

said he,
lion came
1 feciiP^.
said he,
'God
hen said,

ring

icld, to his
and they

iAS

THE NEW PRIEST.

" , '1

CHAPTER LVIII.

FATHER DE BRIE IS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT.

T. ANDREW'S Day and Advent Sunday came
together, that year, and found the earth all white
with snow, six or eight inches deep, fallen in the
night. It was falling in the early day, but none fell
for two hours before church-time. Rough storm-clouds
possessed the sky ; the sea looked dark and cold.
The wind blew steadily, (not very sharply,) from the
north.

The flag was at half-mast, (it being within half an hour
of service-time,) and Mr. Wellon was just going out of his
door when, plodding along, well-wrapped in shawls, and
with her feet cased, over her shoes, in stockings, Miss
Dare appeared, coming up to his house.

" News ! and good news ! " exclaimed she, when the
clergyman had got ne:^,r her. "Mr. De Brie, — or Do
Brie-Barre, — is to be at Church, to-day ; he's just home,
and is to take the Communion, for the first time, with his
wife. She wants thanks given for a safe return, if you'll

be go^ i enough to remember it.'

began

bright tears

A bright smile began the sentence ,
ended it.

" Thank God, indeed I will ! " said the Minister.
She bowed and turned back upon her steps, without

FATHER DE BRIE IS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT. 549

fUGHT.

iay came
all white
len in the
none fell
rm-clouds
and cold,
from the

If an hour
out of his

lawls, and
ngs, Miss

when the
— or De
ust home,
with his
I, if you'll

ght tears

ister.

s, without

another word. ]Mr. Wellon, too, instead of going on, first
went back, for a few minutes, into his house.

He was absent-minded, that day, in speaking to the
different little parties who loitered for him, or for others,
and whom he overtook, in the new-broken snow.

Late as it was, he turned aside and went quickly into
Mrs. Barre's house. She was ready to go to church.

" You see I have my bride's clothes on, Mr. Wcllon,"
said she, trying to smile, as she called his attention to her
deep-dark dress. The smile flickered and went out, as
if the tears that came in spite of her had quenched it.

Ah ! no one can tell what is in woman, or in humanity,
till he has known a noble wife. There is no other such
thing on earth.

Pale and beautiful in her wifehood, — trembling, as the
hand told him, while he held it, the look of her not only
struck the pastor speechless, but scemcil to fill little
Mary with a tender awe. The Englis' >( .-vant wept
quietly ; and another woman whom she iiad got here,
sobbed without reserve.

" I do believe," she said, — " I tru^•t, — that if I should
never lift ray knees, again, from befc e the altar, (if God
permits me to take that sacrament with my husband,) —
I do trust that the strongest wish I had, for this world, has
beon satisfied."

" Many long, happy years to you ! " said the pastor,
pressing her hand and breakmg away from her.

" Is it nearly church-time ? " she asked, evidently
listening, all the while, for a foot-fall in the entry, with-
out.

" Yes ; I must say good-bye. God ble^s you ! "

" He might go down the nearest way, if he were very
late," she said.

\\\

:•! i

I ^

i»i

»H^!

550

THE NEW PRIEST.

IV ::i

" lie ma7/ be late, too ; for it's hard walking this morn-
ing," answered Mr. Wellon, lingering.

" Oh yes ! you must hurry," she said. " Don't stay
with me, much as I should like it. Good morning ! I
shall follow."

He looked back, often, on his way to church, and from
the church-door. As he went up the aisle from the ves-
try, his step was quicker than usual, and his look nervous.
He cast a quick glance all round the church from Mrs.
Barre's seat, on rising from his secret prayer; he read
the Exhortation in an excited voice. — For any one who
might look closely, it was to be seen that Miss Dare,
whose seat was in front of Mrs. Barre's, and who stood
with her eyes intent npon her Prayer-book, had something
very unusual in her manner.

The Service went on : Confession, Absolution, Lord's
Prayer, Versicles ; the Priest said " God make speed
to save us ! " the people answered " Lord, make haste
to help us ! " when the door of the church was opened,
the cord running over the pulley rattled, and a face that
would not be forgotten in a lifetime showed itself in the
opening. Mrs. Barre, more widow-like than ever, — her
gentle cheek paler, her black dress blacker, — was there,
and her look was wild and fearful. She was there but a
moment, and the door closed again behind her. She had
gone out.

" Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost ! " continued the Priest.

"As it was in the Beginning, is now and ever shall be,
world without end. — Amen ! " the people answered.

A strange man opened the church-door, and looking
up to the Minister, as if to explain that he could not help
it, came right in, and choosing with his eye his man, went

i morn-

I't stay
ing ! I

nd from
the vos-
lervous.
nn Mrs.
be read
3ne who
s Dare,
ho stood
mething

, Lord*3
:e speed
ke haste
opened,
ace that
in the
er, — her
as there,
re but a
She had

i to the

?hall be,
ed.

looking
not help
an, went

FATHER DE lUill-: IS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT. 551

Straight to Skipper Isaac INIarchant, whose seat was near
the door, and sj)oke a few words in his ear. The skipper
glanced up at the Minister a meaning look, laid down his
book, glanced up again at the Minister, and beckoning
with a slight motion of his head, to some young men of
his own family and others, who were near him, and who
were all ready, i'rom what they had seen, went out with
the man, and they followed.

The church was all full of people, — crowded with blue-
jackets ; (for our people were all back from Lab' ■ ,
and they all come when they are in the harbor,) the "e
was beginning quite a stir among the whole congregation,
on the ttoor and in the gallery.

The Priest paused, and leaning over said a word to
one near him, and waited for an answer. In a moment
it was brought 80 him.

"• Let us phay ! " he said, breaking the Order of
Mornin<T Pmver; and the voice brought the hundreds of
people, already excited, (but waiting upon the MUiirifr
instesid (d' going forth,) to their knees, with one stroke,
like weapons ordered to the ground.

'• O Great and Mighty God," said the Priest, " Who
alone doest Wonders, Who seest a Path in the Sea, and
a Way in the Wilderness, and — Footsteps m ///« track-
less Snow" one thrill of understanding, or of j^trange,

unworded ^ead went through all the people, like a c\M
from the ice, (for there was one, same stir among them,
telling or it,) " go forth with us, we humbly })ray Thee,
to find our Brother, who is lost ! and in Thy safe keeping,
oh, keep him safe, whom Thou hast kept, and bring him
safe, whom Thou hast brought safe through other Wan-
denngs ; and oh, Most Loving Father ! with Thy sweet
Help, bless her who has been long waiting, — througl)
Jesus Christ, Our Lord."

Ml. I

MM i

*..,!;Si

r)r)2

THE NEW PRIEST.

"Amen ! " said all the people ; and Priest and people
rose to their feet.

The English Priest, trained in the old prayers, had
struck a vein of homely P^nglish, which all ki-iew and felt,
through all their hearts.

" Brethren ! '' said he, " God has another service for
us, towards Him and towards our neighbor this day.
Let the women and those who cannot go, pray for us at
home. — Now let us ask God's blessing ! "

They all kneeled down for it ; but the Minister seemed
moved by an inspiration: —

" Walter De Brie ! " he exclaimed, unexpectedly, and
took upon iiis lips those words, that have cheered and
comforted so many near to death, as if he co»:ld speak
out into the Waste of Snow : '' Unto God's gracious
Mercy and Protection we commit thee. The Lord bless
thee and keep thee ! The Lord make His face to shine
upon thee, and be gracious unto thee ! The Lord lift up
the Light of His Countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace, both now — and — evermore ! "

One sob burst forth aloud from Miss Dare ; then
there was silence, and then the Clerk and people said
"Amen ! "

And th«'n came the Blessing: "The peace of God
which passeth all Understanding, keep your Hearts and
Minds in the Knowledge and Love of God, and of His
Son, Jesus Christ, Our Lord ! and the Blessing of God
Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be
amongst you, and remain with you always ! *' — "Amen ! "

The bervic*i in the House of God was done, for that
/b^- TJve neoftle poured forth. Our priest said a few
words tc Xkh'i T>wr whose face was all marred with
tears, and fJ»€)j ;:"irricc.ly followed Ihem.

FATHER DE BRIE IS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT. 553

I people

ers, had
and felt,

vice for
his day.
for us at

seemed

dly, and
red and
d speak
gracious
)rd bless
to shine
d lift up
;ive thee

'e ; then
)ple said

of God
arts and
\ of His
; of God
jrhost, be
Amen ! "

for that
aid a few
red with

" Right over to the Barrens : he was on his way across
from Ncw-ITiirbor ! " said he, as he came forth, and hur-
ried on, staying for no parley. Tiie New-Harbor man
who had come into the church, had gone on, as fast as
possible, before.

The Iresh, loose snow was hard to walk in, as they
went, but no man thought of laijginn;. Men crowding
tlie way made w'ay for tl»e Par-on, and followed faster.
There was no time losi amonn; them. Among the fore-
most, and every where, among the crowd, were women.
For plan and order there is a sort of star.ding organiza-
tion of our fishermen, under their skippers, sufficient for
the purpose of such a work.

The Parson stopped and looked in hurriedly at Mrs.
Barre's ; the door was open ; the house was empty. He
hurried on, faster than before.

Whoever in the harbor had a horse, turned aside to his
house, and, harnessing it in haste, mounted and hurried
on. The dogs from the whole harbor swelled the sad
search. As Mr. Wellon came forth, mounted, his great,
black, kind-hearted " Eppy," of whom Mr. De Brie had so
lately said, playfully, that *' they might be better friends
one day," came forth also, as solemnly as if he knew that
this was no common errand, and stopped a moment in
the road, with his tail down, and sniffed the wintry air
from the direction of the Barrens.

The sky was leaden over all, and the cold wind came
sharply from the north.

On the little beach, near the meadow^, which is so pretty
in summer, was a group o^ three persons ; the middle one
being Mrs. Barre, the two others Miss Dare and Skipper
George's daughter. Others lingered not far off.

As he drew near, the pastor threw himself from his

t.i r

li t

554

THE NEW PRIEST.

9^' ■ ^

:li^^ . :

Iki

horse, and begged Mrs. Barre to " trust the search to her
friends, who would not leave any thing undone that men
could do, and to seek some shelter. She might destroy
herself."

" No ! No ! " said she, wildly, " hes in the open air ! I
might die of waiting in the house. If I can't help it, I'll
go into some cottage by-and-by ; but not yet."

While she spoke, she gave him silently a letter, and as
he looked, somewluit confused by his feelings, at the out-
side, she said, " The pencil-writing ! " and looked at him
so earnestly, that he understood it as a mute request,
and read aloud, or rather in a voice broken, —

" ' My own sweet Wife, — Father Terence was waiting,
and I can't slight him. I will come, God willing, the
first possible moment, to be with you at Holy Communion
to-morrow, and never to leave you again. Do you re-
memher the anniversary, Darling'^ That first Day in
Jamaica ! Look at the Collect, Epistle, and Gospel for
St. Andrew, and apply them to me. — Till we meet. Good-
bye ! Good-bye ! My best and dearest ! God be with you !
— Yr. own Walter.' "

Mr. Wellon made great effort at the words " Till we
meet ; " but in vain. He could not read them in a steady
voice, or without tears. Mrs. Barre kneeled right down
upon the snow, lifting her pale, streaming face and her
hands supplicatingly to Heaven; her young supporters
bore themselves wonderfully.

Mrs. Barre was not long in summoning that tender
strength which she had shown in all her trials, and taking
her precious letter in her hand again, said, " Oh ! Mr.
Wellon, do not wait ! Do not let the snow oome ! "

" Indeed I won't ! " said he. " What I would do for
my brother, I'll do for him : of course ! "

rATIIEU DE BRIE IS WAITED FOK, AND SOUGHT. 555

Pa?t fjroups of men and women, and single riders, he
silently hurried. The snow was still broken before him,
as he hurried on, and he passed party after party still,
of people from Peterport and Castle-Bay. Near the
edge of the Barrens, a place which has been described as
it was in summer, he found the foremost ; the New-
riarbor man that had come to the church, and another
stranger, and with them Ski])per George, Skipper Isaac,
Skipper Henry, young Mr. Urston, Jesse Hill, Isaac
MafFen, and Mr. r>angs. They were just coming to a
halt. Before them the snow had been broken only by
the two men that had come across.

While they were making their short and simple ar-
rangements, one of the strange men told all that there
was of story : —

" The gentleman had not come down in the morning,
and his chamber was found empty. Mr. Oldhame had
instantly made; up this little party in pursuit. On their
way over they had not expected to find tracks, for
they were probably several hours behind him, and much
snow had fallen ; but they found that he had not got
out"

" Perhaps he never laved the t'other side, sir," said
Skipper George to Mr. Wellon.

The Parson looked up at the New-ITarbor man with
a flash of hope ; but it was soon quenched. The man
said : —

" 'E was for setting off, last evenun, a'most ; but they
persuaded 'im off it ; " and Mr. Wellon recalled the letter,
and said, wdth sad assurance : —

" He wrote to his wife that he meant to come, the first
minute he could get away, and hoped to be at the Com-
munion with her to-day."

!i '

I!. I

I I

556

THE NEW niK^^\\

" Di'l 'o, now, sir ? '* said Skipper Iroorgc. " TKei\ \
make no doubt but 'e ve atrled it ; " and i\w \vhv>le com-
pany assented.

'* Th^Y said 'e corned over once, without any botly^ »«\ld
fehp st^'anger, "an' I suppose 'e didn't think v^^ the ditfev-
eijwe o' the snow."

" The i)Oor gentleman ! the poor gentleman I *^ siyul
Skipper George ; " but raubbe 'e isn' dead. \l^y nuiid
was brought back, thank God ! " — but then. Skipper
George's hoys and his orphan nephews had never come
alive out of the ice !

It was speedily arranged that they should push over to
the other side of the Barrels ; and while one went
straight on to New-Harbor, the rest should take every
opening through the Woods *nd every path into the Bar-
rens, and follow it out. Skip^xu- Edward Ressle and
Skis)per Abrara Marehant, it was said, had gone along
the Bay-E \ to cross from other points.

The only hasty preparations now made had been to put
off every unnecessary weight to go back with the horses.
Some extra coats, and several bottles of spirits, the ad-
vancing party took with them. Skipper Isaac gave the
parting directions to the iiien who took the beasts back.

" Ef snow doesn't come in an hour's time, an' keep on,
then, an hour after that, again, come in wi' the horses, an'
bide an hour, or thereabouts. Ef we'm not here, by that
time, we slimll stay a' t'other side."

M^y had come up, during the short delay, and among
them came, panting, the Parson's dog, who had not been
able ro keep up with his master. As they were now all
foot-travellers, he had no difficulty, and went before them,
in the dreary [)ath toward the great waste of snow over
which the dreary wind came blowing sharply.

IrAtHER DE BlUE KS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT. T);")?

i
The (log mounteil the hillock, a little way within tlie

Barrens, ami giving a short, sharp bark, plunged down
the other side.

The men all rushed together ; and in the gulsh at the
foot of the opposite rise, lay, black upon the snow, fair in
the mici-pathway, a still body, with the dog nozzling at it.

J ■

I i

I 1

6r)8

TllK Ni:U' I'HIKST.

^ii

CHAPTER LIX.

THE wife's MKETING.

fill-:

' \.

iT was a drlff, two or three feet deep, in and upon
which the still body lay. The cheek of the right
•^ side was next the snow ; the head was bare ; the
left hand holding, or seeming to hold, the hat ; while the
right arm was curved about the head. The outside coat
was partly open, from the top downwards, as if the wearer
might have unbuttoned it, when heated.

The whole attitude was that of one who had laid him-
self down to sleep at summer-noon, and the face was
lovely as in sleep ; the eyelids were not fast closed ; there
was a delicate color in the cheek, and the lips were red.
There was a bright, conscious look, too, as of one that
was scarcely asleep, even.

"Thank God! he's alive!" said young Mr. Urston,
speaking first. " Father Ignatius ! " he called, taking him
by the hand ; then, correcting himself, " Mister De Brie !"

"Ay! he'll never spake to yon name, no more," said
the Protestant Jesse.

The Parson, having quickly tried the wrist, was now
feeling within the clothing, over the heart, and looking
anxiously into the face.

The hair was blown restlessly by the wind ; but there
was no waking, nor any sylf-moving of the body.

THE WIFE'S MEETING.

r)r)9

nd upon
he right
are ; the
fhile the
side coat
e wearer

aid him-
ace was
i ; there
ere red.
one that

Urston,
cing him
3 Brie!"
re," said

was now
looking

ut tliere

"N'y," said Skipper George, gravely, "I'm afeard
thi8 is n' liviin.— Oh ! Oh!"

" T saw a house not but a step or two off, 's we come
along," said Mr. Bangs, who had been chafing the hands
with brandy, and had tenderly rubbed a little, with his lin-
ger, insid(; the nostrils.

Mr. Wellon, rising from the snow, shook his head and
turned away. " No, no,'' he said, as if to the question of
life ; — '* and he'd got into the right road / "

" Why, he's warm, sir," urged Urston ; " certainly, he's
warm ! " The Constable felt of the flesh and said noth-
ing.

"Shall us take un to the tilt?" asked Jesse. "It's
Will Resslc's, Mr. Banks manes.— He's close by."

" By all means ! " answered the Parson. " Yes ! "
" Yes!" said Skipper Isaac and the bystanders.

" See, sir ! " said Skipper George, " 'e didn' fall down.
'E've laid himself down to rest, most like, where the snow
was soft, and failed asleep. — That's bin the w'y of it.
I've bin a'most so far gone, myself, sir, afore now."

" See how the hair is smoothed .away from his temples,"
said young Urston.

" 'Twas the dog ! " answered the old fisherman, ten-
derly, " wi' tryun to bring un to. — Yes," he added, " 'e
v^as out o' the path, when the good n'ybors from t'other
side corned along, an 'e got into un, agen, after — an' 'e
was tired when 'e coined to this heavy walkun, an' so —
What'll come o' the {)Oor lady ! "

As they lifted the body carefully out of the snow, to
bear it away, a new voice spoke : —

*' Won't ye put more clothing on um, for it's blowing
bitter cold?"

Father Terence had made his way from New-Harbor

>ii

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

I.I

11.25

■^ ^ |22
^ US, 12.0

WUi.

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. I4S80

(716) 873-4503

SCO

THE NEW PKIKST.

Rr ^-

and apprOi;ched the group in silence. He oflfered, for a
wrji|)per, his own great-coat, whicli ho had taken off.

" We've agot store o' wrappuns, sir ; many thanks to
you, sir, all the same," answered Jesse Hill, very heart-
ily ; and others, too, made their acknowledgments. — They
wrapped the body, from head to i'oot, in their blankets,
hastily.

Mr. Wellon saluted Father Terence, saying that " he
had very little hope — indeed, he feannl that there was no
hope — of that body being restored to life."

" Oh, dear ! I fear not, I fear not ! " said Father Terence,
wiping gentle tears away. " Why would he come ? Or
why did 1 hinder urn comin' last night ? — God have mercy
upon urn ! — Absolve, quesumus Domine, animam ejus,"*
he added, privately, or something to that effect.

Skipper Isa.nc held the body against his own ; Jessc
and Isaac Maffen and young Mr. Urston helped to ben
it ; and they went, accompanied by all the others, as fast
as they could go, through the snow, toward the tilt.
Skipper George bore the hat, upon which the grasp of
the owner's cold hand had not been fast. " Eppy," who
had done his dumb part before any, now followed meekly
behind. Behind all, came the cold, hard wind from
the Barrens, whirling the snow from time to time. The
sk; over all was hidden by thick clouds, foreboding
storm.

Within the tilt all that they knew how to do, was done
thoroughly. More than once some one of those engaged
exclaimed that the flesh was growing warmer ; but life
did not come back, and the flesh grew surely colder.
The body was dead; and they gave over their useless
wr>rk upon it, and clothed it as before. — There it

* Abbulvi', wc beseech, Lord, his soul)

^ t

THE WIFE'S MEETING.

5(51

s to
^art-

»#

lay; no priest, no layman, no husband, no father,
no man ! — but it was sacred, and it was reverently
treated, as belonging to Christ, who would give it life,

again.

Some said, — among themselves, — that Father O'Toole
had not staid long.

"What more could 'e do?" asked Gilpin.— « 'E did
more 'n many would ; " — " an* 'e spoke proper feelun,
like," said others. " Bless the old gentleman ! "

Crowds had been gathering about the place where the
melancholy work was going on ; these the constable, and
Mr. Skilton and William Frank occupied, drawing them
a little apart, that there might be no hindrance, from the
numbers, to those who were busy about the dead. The
sad, short story, stilled and saddened all. " Dead ! " —
" Is 'e dead ? " — " so near home, too ! " — " It's pity for
un ! " — " But 'e died Lappy, however ! " said different
voices.

Presently snow, from the thick sky, began to be borne
upon the wind.

Gilpin, at this, hastened to the door, and others, coming
out, met him.

" How'll we cany un ? " the constable asked, in a low
voice. " O' horseback ? "

" We was just spakun," said Jesse, " 'twould look like
mockun the dead, to take un ridun, to my seemun."

" Ay, but we've got to be quick about it ; the snow's
coming ! "

" What's to bender we carryun? sure it's more feelun.
We wouldn* begredge walkun all the w'y to B'y Harbor,
ef 'twas to B'y- Harbor, even ef it snowed, itself."

" It would be long waiting for a slide — ," said the con-
stable.

562

THE NEW PRIEST.

Bt)?

■ '-1

»'

■h 1

Hi i

in, '

VI !

" An* we could'n have un bide in tlie cold, here, while
we was w'itun," said Jesse, " in course."

It was arranged that one or two of the young men, on
the best horses, should make their way at the utmost
speed, to James Bishop's, the nearest neighborly house
in Castle-Bay, and bring his sled or " slide," and, in the
mean time, relays of bearers were to carry the body on-
ward with what haste they could.

The crowd making a long procession, both before and
behind the bearers, trampled the snow ; for the most part
irA silence. Up the hills and down, many men taking
turns at bearing the body, they made their way between
the woods ; while sometimes the snow fell thickly, and,
sometimes, the thick clouds could be seen before them
and overhead.

Three heavy miles they had got over, when the slide
met them ; and then the burden was transferred to it ; a
sort of dasher, or fender, of boughs was speedily set up
to keep off the snow thrown by the horse's feet ; and they
went on : the Parson, Skipper George, Skipper Isajic,
Skipper Henry, Skipper Edward, the constable, and
others of chief authority and dignity, attended at the sides
and behind the sledge ; all beside giving place to them.
Suddenly there was a commotion, making itself felt from
the foremost ; and then the whole procession opened to
either side, leaving tlie road bare between.

'' Cast off the horse ! " cried Skipper George in a
quick low tone, seeing who was coming. The order
was obeyed, as hastily as possible, and then the slide was
left alone, in the middle of the way, while the crowd at
each side stood huddled upon itself, and hushed.

" Oh, I knew it ! Oh ! " said a woman's voice, heard
by every one, with such a moan of wretchedness that

THE WIFE'S MEETING.

503

every man seemed to start, as if it were an appeal to
himself. Mrs. Barre, pale as death, with tears streaming
down her cheeks, and with hght snow lying upon her
dark hair and on many parts of her black dress, — bearing
in her hand, (aa she had borne, hours before,) a letter, —
rushed between the sundered crowds, and at the side of
the sledge fell down, across the muffled load that lay
upon it. Every person near drew away.

Great passion appropriates absolutely to itself the time
and place, and makes all other things and persons sub-
ordinate and accessory.

For this widowed lady's sorrow the earth and sky
were already fitted ; and so were, not less, the kind hearts
of these men and women.

She lay with her face buried in the folds of the cloak
which Mr. Wellou had spread over her husband's body,
and uttered a fondling murmur against the wall of that
desolated chamber, as, not long ago, she had murmured
fondly against the strong, warm bosom of her recovered
love. Many by-standers sobbed aloud.

Then she lifted her head, and turned down the covering
from the face.

" Oh, Walter ! " she said, clasping her two hands under
the heavy head, and gazing at the stiffening features,
" Oh, my noble husband ! — My beautiful, noble husband ! "
then, shaking her head, while the tears dropped from her
eyes, said, in a broken voice : " Is this all, Walter ? Is
this the end ? — Yes, and it's a good end ! " And again she
buried her face on the dead bosom. " Well ! — Oh, well !
I did not seek you for myself! — It never was for myself!
No!— No!"

The effort to subdue the human love to the divine,
triumphed in the midst of tears.

564

THE NEW PRIEST.

? 1

if*

I' '^i

i' ^

By-and-by she rose up, and with streaming eyes
and clasped hands, turned toward the Minister and
said : —

" I am ready, Mr. Wellon ! Let us go I God's will be
done ! "

She stooped once more ; looked with intense love and
sorrow at the face, wiped her tears from the cold features,
covered them again, carefully, and turned her face toward
the rest of the way, homeward.

Tiie constable made a gesture to Jesse Hill and young
Mr. Urston, and the horse was again harnessed to the
slide. The Parson, leading his horse, (which had been
brought so far on the return, by one of the young men,)
came to Mrs. Barre's side and took her arm in his. He
begged her to allow herself to be lifted to the saddle, and
to ride. Skipper George, also, had come forward to
suggest the same thing.

" It is'n fittun the lady should walk home, sir," said he
to the pastor, apart.

Mrs. Barre heard and understood, and answered : —

" Would it make the load too heavy — ? — " she finished
with a longing look the sentence which was not finished
with words.

The fishermen at first hesitated at the thought of her
going upon the sledge that bore her husband's corpse.

" It wouldn't be too heavi/ ; " one of them said ; and as
if no objection could be made, she went, and, putting her
arm tenderly underneath, lifted the body, seated herself
upon the bier, taking the muflBed head in her lap, and
bent over it, lost to all things else.

All other arrangements for riding and walking having
been quietly made, the procession again set forward
towards home faster than before. The snow, at times.

THE WIFE'S MEETING.

5C5

fell fast ; but in about an hour more they were descend-
ing the high hill into Castle-Bay ; and before them
lay the gi'eat, black sea, with its cold bordering of
white.

They passed along the chilly beach. At one point,
whether consciously or unconsciously, Mrs. Barre lifted
her head and looked toward both sea and land. On the
landward side stretched a little valley, with a knoll and
rock, and tree at its northern edge ; a sweet spot in
summer, but now lonely and desolate. She gave a sort
of cry, and turned from the sight.

" O my God, thou knowest ! " she could be heard to
say, sobbing over her husband's body ; and she looked up
no more until, in another hour, with the cold stars and
drifting clouds over head, they had reached her desolate
house.

" My dear brethren," said our priest, " we have not
lost our Sunday ; let us close this day with prayer ! "

He and all the men stood, heedless of the wintry wind,
uncovered before God, and he said : —

« We thank Thee, O Merciful Father, that Thou hast
given to us this, our brother's body, to lay in our hallowed
ground ; but, above al', for the hope that his soul, washed
in the blood of the immaculate Lamb who was slain to
take away the sins of the world, has been presented
without spot before Thee. Give our sister, we beseech
Thee, strength and peace ; have her and us in Thy safe-
keeping, and bring us to Thy heavenly house, through
Jesus Christ, our Lord."

The congregation having been dismissed with the Bless-
ing, our priest and the chief men reverently carried
the body into the parlor, and disposed it there, amid the
memorials of happy fbrnier years, and arranged a watch.

566

THE NEW PRIEST.

CHAPTER LX.

FATHEit TERENCE, TO THE LAST.

OW Mrs. Barre passed the three days in the
house with her dead husband's body, need not be
told, if we could tell it. The burying-day came,
and it was bright, — there was no cloud. People gathered
from every quarter. All the Church-clergy of the Bay
were there, and the Weslevan ministers : — there are no
others but Roman Catholics. When the procession began
to form from the church, a murmur went through the
multitude ; there stood one figure alone outside of the
array. All who were near drew back and left an open
space for hiui , but h j gave no heed to it. This was Fa-
ther Terence.

He followed the procession, and, staying without the
inclosure, stood devoutly during the burial of the dead.
When the service was all done, and the crowd were
slowly moving away, he went down the hill alone and
departed.

The Minister was for sometime in the churchyard, and
afterwards a little while in the church ; and when at
length he went sadly homeward, as he passed Mrs.
Barre's house, he turned aside and entered.

" She's at my aunt's," said Miss Dare ; and then
silently put into the pastor's hand a written paper. It

FATHER TERENCE, TO THE LAST.

5G7

was entitled, " Copy of a hyran in Mr. De Brie's writing,
found on his pf:rson, and dated on the night before his
last journey." It read thus : —

"TO GOD MOST HIGH.

" 0, my God, I have but Thee I
Earthly friends are faint and few;
To myself 1 am not true ;
Yet, my Lord, Thou lovest me.

I am poor, and have no more ;
But Thy love is in my heart;
Earth shall never tear apart
That which is my hidden store.

Many, many doubts and fears,
I have muny woes and cares ;
But Thou comcst at unawares,
And I see Thee through my tears.

I would never be my own.

Nor on friends my heart-strings twine ;

1 do seek to be but Thine,

And to love but Thee alone.

Jesus ! while Thy cross I see.
Though my heart do bleed with wo,
By those blessed streams I know
Blood of Thine was shed for me.

0, my Lord! Be Thou my guide;
Let me hold Thee by the hand ;
Then, in drear and barren land,
I will seek no friend beside."

Llr. Wellon held the papier long; — that was the last
utterance, to which men were privy, of the heart that was
now dead, unices these words, in his wife's prayer-book
which he had with him, were written later: "I have
found rest!"

508

THE NEW FKIEST.

CHAPTER LXI.

MRS. BARRE AFTERWARDS.

RS. BARRE lived on, nobly, where the noblest
part of her life had been, and saw Mary,
(grown to womanhood,) like herself, happy in
holy faith and service. She lived on nobly.

Once, on a pleasant summer's day, after no wasting, or
weakening, or dependence, when her time came, her life
went out as a star is lost in the day.

She laid herself down at evening ; bade her maids stay
with her ; took from the priest the Sacred Body and
Blood ; joined with her voice in the Church-prayers ;
lay still, with sofl breathing, (and the other Christians, —
priestly and lay, simple and gentle, — breathed softly by
her bedside, while the sound of waves breaking upon the
far-off sand came in, and moonlight and shade lay calmly
side by side out of doors, and dews fell calmly ;) once
opened her eyes upward, saying, through the stillness,
" Yes ! " as if in answer ; turned, partly, with a bright
smile, to her friends ; then shut the lids down softly for the
last time, and so, with a fair veil of smile hung over the
dead features, left her body there to be put away, until it
shall be raised, in new beauty, to walk upon The New
Earth.

TII£ END OF ALL.

rMi

CHAPTER LXII.

THE END OF ALL.

E must add something for the reader's sake.

Of course young Mr. Urston married Skip-
per George's daughter in due time. He first
went up to St. John's as a Cliurciiman, and, finishing his
studies, was ordained in Halifax to the ministry of the
Church. He served his diaconate in the capital, and
when advanced to the priesthood, was appointed to the
mission at Castle-Bay, within sight of his father's house ;
and a fine fellow he proved to be. His wife, as the
reader will believe, was not a whit unworthy of him.

Father Terence was said to be a good deal changed, in
the last years of his life ; having b*. come more silent and
reseiTed. Some Roman Catholics, who were ill-satisfied
with his tolerant and kindly spirit, gave him the name of
the " Protestant Priest." Indeed, an assistant came
down to him of quite another sort from himself. Yet he
kept about his quiet way of life, beloved by the great
body of his people, until his death.

Fanny Dare was married happily to one between
whom and herself an enjjajjement had been formed sev-
eral years before, but broken up for a time, or clouded
over, by things and persons in no way affecting their mu-
tual love.

670

TIIF NEW PUIEST.

A letter to Mr. Wellon from the midst of a bridal tour
on the Continent, described an incident which may inter-
est the reader.

In entering her carriage at Civita Vecchia, she was
struck, without knowing wiiy, by the appearance of a
person in the dress of an avvocato^ who was bestowing
most animated attentions upon an English clergyman and
otiiers just alighted, to whose party he seemed to be-
long. Seeing her eyes fixed upon him, he lifted his hat,
with a grave courtesy, bowed, and turned away ; but she
had already recognized, not the voice only, but the fea-
tures of one whom she had before both seen and heard
in Newfoundland, as Father Nicholas.

She saw the same man, playing the same part, after-
ward, in Rome ; and from the best information that she
could get, in answer to careful inquiries in both places,
believed him to be an agent in the pay of the pontifical
police.

Of any of the other folk of our tale, Dear Reader,
we must guess; or go to Newfouudlaud and ask.

MARGARET.

By Sylvester Judd. One volume. Price fi.fa

SELECTIONS FROM SOME NOTABLE REVIEWS.

From tht Southtrn Quaritrly Rtvuw,

Thii book, more than any other that we have read, leads us to believe in the
pofifibiliiy of a distinctive American Literature. ... It bears the impress of New
ttaglanJ uptm all its features. It will be called the Yankee novel, and rightly ; foi
a'^where elw have we seen the thought, dialect, and customs of a New England
VillaK't BO well and faithfully re()re8entcd. . . . More sipiiticant to our mind thic
tny book that has yet api^eared in our country. To as it seems to be a nrcphec;
*f the Aiture. It contemplates the tendencies of American life and cnaracter.
NTuuhere else have we seen, so well written out, the very feelings which our rivers
wd woods and mountains are calculated to awaken. . . . We pi edict the time when
Ma/ftaret will be one of the Antiquary's text-bouks. It contains a whole magazins
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From tht North A mtrican Review.

" We knovr not where any could go to find iriore exact and pleasing descriptioiM
<I^the scenery of New England, or of the ve);etable and aninuil forms which give it
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Itil'., in New England, this book is of great value."

From the London Atheturum.

"This book, tlough published some time since in America, has only recently
brcome known here by a few stray copies that have found their way over. Its
(eadin;^ idea is so well worked out, that, with all its faults of detail, it strikes us aa
deserving a wider circulation. . . . The book bears the iinpre.ss of a new country,
and is full of rough, uncivilized, but vigorous life. The leading idea which it seems
Oitended to expound is, that the surest way to degrade men is to make themselves
degraded ; that so long as that belief does not poison the sources of experiencei
* Mi things* — even the sins, follies, mistakes, so rife among men — can be made
' to work together for good ' This doctrine, startling as it may sound at first, ia
wrought out with a fineiinowledge of human nature."

From tht A nti-Slavery Standard.

" A remarkable book, with much ^ood common sense in it. full of deep thooght
pervaded throughout with strong religious feeling, a full conception of the essence of
Christianity, a tender compassion for the present condition of man, and an abiding
hope through love of what his destiny may be. . . . Dut all who, like Margaret.
' dream dreams,' and ' see visions,' and look for that time to come when man shall
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From the Boston Daily Advertiser.

** This is quite a remarkable book, reminding you of Southey's ' Doctor,' per*
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SasvA everybody and whom everybody loves, and «hiM>e s'wcet miftueuce is felt
wlieiever she appears. She has visions of ideal beauty, and her waking eyM sm
beauty .aid joy in every thing."

From the Christian Register.

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ome half century ago. Its materials are drawn from the most familiar elements
of every-day life. Its merits are so peculiar, and there is so much that isariginsl
Uiil rich in Its contents, that, sooner o' .ater, it will be appreciated. It is impossi-
ble to pi«dict with assurance the fate of a book, but we shall be much mistakes
if Manaret does not in due season work its way to a degree of admiration soldom
attained by a work of its class."

Sold everywhere* Mailed^ frefaid^ on receipt of price^
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Messrs, Roberts Brothers* Publications,

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One volume. i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50.

" Its author is best known from his first book, ' Margaret,' a work in the form
of fiction, whose remarkable thoughtfulness and originality made much impression
on cultivated minds. ' Richard Edney ' was intended to have more directness
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It is just what it claims to be, namely, a rus-urban tale, simple and popular^
yet cultured and noble of murals, sentiment, and life, particularly treated and
pleasantly illustrated." — Boston Post,

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