“Did she?” asked the Minister.

“Yes; and I think, honestly and truly; and I'll tell
you why I think so. I asked her, next, if Lucy had
been there; and that time she didn't answer at all; and
when she recovered herself, referred me to Father
Nicholas for information.”

“Did you see him?”

“Oh dear! no. I thought I could do without him;
so, then, I and my double came away, leaving 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 report of my womanwork!
Can you make any thing of it?”

The Minister sate, thoughtful.

“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, “wisely.—The Priest knows, of course;
and Mr. Naughton?”

“The Priest knows that I did not find her, and rejoiced
that I was `satisfied,' as he supposed I was.”

“And Mr. Naughton?”

“He only knows what the Priest 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!” exclaimed the Minister. “He needn't
know it, yet.”

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

“No, poor man! He knows nothing about it,” said
Fanny Dare.

The Minister smiled; “You say `poor man!' Is that
the expression of a woman's sympathy because there is
one point in which his curiosity hasn't been indulged?”

Fanny Dare slightly blushed—(she never had much
color;)—she blushed a little, and smiled too. That was a
little breaking-out of the woman, perhaps; but perhaps it
was at some other thought associated with her equestrian
companion than a thought of his ungratified curiosity.

“He doesn't know that I was really usurping his office.
What will Justice say, if it gets the bandage off and sees
what I've been doing!—But would you rather have a
little woman in possession of that information?”

“Yes; since it's happened so:—”

“There's a man's qualification,” interrupted she; and
then, suddenly putting off her gay manner, said, “but are
you willing to trust me a little farther, and tell me
whether you think, as I did, that they've had her there,
and have got her away?”

“I'm sure I'll trust you, if you'll please to count it a
trust, and not speak of it; I do think she has been there.
It's a sad mystery; but you may be sure that, with
God's leave, we shall follow up, to the uttermost, every
clue.”

“And may God bring her back as she went!” said
Fanny.

A figure appeared at a distance, upon the road, in the
direction of Marchants' Cove.

“There comes Mr. Naughton, just as we were speaking
of him,” said Fanny, preparing to go, by throwing her
little kerchief over her head:—“but I mustn't forget Mrs.
Barrè, Mr. Wellon,” she said, lingering, “do see her;

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

I'm sure she'll be glad of it, though she can't open her
heart to the bottom.”

“I saw her the other day,” he answered, rising, “and
will soon, again, although the press of this other sad
business pushes me off from almost every thing else.
How strong she seems!”

“But she's going through a great struggle,” said Miss
Dare.

The Minister went on his way down the harbor, and
the young lady back to Mrs. Barrè's.

Mr. Wellon and the Magistrate, meeting half-way, exchanged
a few words with one another, and then Mr.
Naughton came on, while the Minister 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 comin'?” adapted freely, and
the words of her song were these:—

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

The melody of that voice 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; certainly
he did not go by, up the road, that day.

p638-366 CHAPTER XXXIV. HIGH MASS, WHOSE “INTENTION” WAS FOR MR. BANGS, AND A SERMON.

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

MR. BANGS remained at (and about) the Mission
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

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

quite know how to manage with a scholar of the sort.
The very ease with which the sacred work went on occasionally
perplexed him. Mr. Bangs described his progress
as that of “a full team an' a horse to let;” and in
different words, changing the figure, (for Mr. Bangs,
though not as witty 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 edification,
but did “a little mite 'n the way o' huntin' up
business,” (especially among Father Terence's co-religionists,)
for the purpose, as he said, of “keepin' up the circulation.”
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 Father
Nicholas had an engagement, and was out of the
way; and none of the clergy from other stations happened
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

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

managed 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, according
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 every 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 celebrant
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 doffs the folded
vestment and dons the stole, and when he puts off the
stole again and puts on the 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 without
such an official, and indeed, except that he was determined
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 occasion,
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 Reverend
Celebrant.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

Supported by these accessory and inferior ministers,
the worthy Priest came, very red and dignified, out of the
sacristy, and proceeded to the choir, in orderly array, the
organ (a hand-organ, left on trial in the place, with a
view to its purchase) playing Handel's “Tantum, ergo.”
It was sometimes said of Father Terence, “that when he
got his great looks on, the Governor reviewing the
troops was a fool to um;” 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 Marshal—
I mean such an one as wears the uniform or bears
the baton only in peaceful fields of trainings and evolution,
and is competent 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 confession
of his sins and other solemn acts of worship, was
mingled to-day a flurry, occasioned by his consciousness
of the unusual complicatedness of his arrangements.

There was some blundering on the part of his subordinates,
in bringing him the censer, and taking and giving
the pax, and things of that kind. The master of

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

ceremonies got the candles put out when they should have
been lighted, and so on; but when he came 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 cross 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 commits
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,

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

which made them bow when they ought to have made
genuflexion, (and that on both knees,) and kept them sitting
when they ought to have been on their feet.

On the other hand, the organ turned and gave its
sounds, and the singers sang, sometimes unaccompanied,
and sometimes in concert with the instrument, lustily.

It was not a part of Father O'Toole's usual practice to
have a sermon; indeed, the current report of him was
that he was a “tarrible larn'd man entirely, and, on that
account,”—(singular effect of a cause!)—“had been recommended
by his spiritual superior not to preach.” He
was satisfied with offering up the “August, Unbloody
Sacrifice for the Living and the Dead,” and seldom said
a word outside of the Ordo and Canon, except to publish
banns and give notices. He was not in the habit of denouncing
from the Altar—kindly man!—either his Protestant
neighbors or backsliders of his own.

On this day, he felt called upon to stir up the gift that
was in him, and deliver himself of a message. His text
was in Psalms, lxvii. 32: Æthiopia præveniet manus
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 necessary
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 for the mass, as any
man could see by listening to the words of the text;
fourth, that the glorious Mother of God was rapidly gaining
that preëminence that the whole world, as well as
Aythiopia, would soon give up to her; fifth, that convents

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

were not bad, and no good Catholic would think of forcing
any one to go into a convent, Catholic or Protestant,
(upon this he dwelt longest;) sixth, that confession was
not that bad thing that was represented, but was a great
stimulus to the soul to keep it down, and was it not
a great convenience for paying the dues, twice in the
year?

Having thus exhausted the subject, argumentatively,
he proceeded to a practical application of it. He said he
need not be telling his audience 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, beginning,
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 digressed
a little to prove that that great man was an Irishman,
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

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

application, but did not come amiss where it was;)—that
the country he spoke of, resembled that mentioned in the
text in another respect, as having a great number of black
men in it,—though there were many that might properly
be called white.

Finally, he applied his exhortation closely, by reproving
many of his hearers, who were imperfect Catholics, for
being too soon for stretching out their hands to shilelaghs,
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 congregation,
after the manner of their race, made a public exhibition
of themselves, by way of hiding from the pastoral
eye, and the censorious looks of neighbors. Mr. Bangs,
during these last sentences, had sunk his head upon the
back of the seat before him, and made an occasional noise,
which the good-natured speaker, and other indulgent persons,
took to be the sound of a choking, by excess of feeling.
Some, indeed, thought that the American had gone
to sleep.—The sound may have been one still less appropriate.—
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 with which a public
speaker is misunderstood, that some of the audience, after
going out,—although one would 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 the audience, standing at corners, drew the
conclusion, from what they had heard, that, as Aythiopia
and Ayrin began with the same letters, the latter was soon

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

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 his own
force, and made proof of his priesthood. Cordially he
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 thanksgiving.

Mr. Bangs was recovered, after all was done, through
the sacristan, who found him in front of the scene of the
late holy operations, guessing about it, to himself.

Father Terence, in the interview that followed, was full
of a comfortable confidence that what had been done had
not been done in vain for the American's good; and was
assured in this feeling by the latter acknowledging that,
after what he had seen and heard, he had not a word to
say. He helped Mr. Bangs to a correct appreciation of
the whole, by supplying information on several parts, and,
among others, he explained 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

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

that violet come from violatin' our dooty, most likely.”
Father Terence complimented him on the derivation, saying
that 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
from maris stella, (that's Maria, of course,) because she's
the queen of it; and it was a good offer at a Catholic
derivation.”

p638-376 CHAPTER XXXV. THE GRAVEYARD MAKES STRANGE MEETINGS.

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

THE 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 the flagstaff
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 down, 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.

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

At the same time, another scene was going on at the
side, unnoticed, very likely, except to those 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 respectfully,
stood still until it should have passed into the
church.

Mrs. Barrè 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

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

standing but a hundred feet from her, on his way towards
the spot where she had set herself. There is a point,—
one chance in million millions,—where the wide wandering
comet may meet a world and whelm it; (God will
see to that;) but here was a point at which she met this
Romish priest again. Drawing her child up against her
knees, she turned, and in the middle of the way, stood, in
gentle, sorrowing, noble womanhood, in front of Mr. Debree,
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, drawing
her child up against her knees; and this was one of
the great times in life. It matters not for the surroundings;
it may be Marathon to Miltiades, or Thermopylæ
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.

The Priest 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. Barrè or the child, but as he
passed into the main road, bowed his face, all agonized,
and said, as he had said in Mad Cove, “I cannot! I cannot!”

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 state

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

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 Mrs. Barrè had fresh memories of losses; but
suddenly, at that very word, to many a person's astonishment
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 passed by, divining the mother's
thoughts and fears; and before the words were fairly
said, the mother was gliding up the steep way to the
place, (properly grave-yard, 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. Barrè.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

How strange it was, that having missed her and sought
for her, the mother should be satisfied when she had
found her in such hands!

“She's brought him to my little boy's grave,” said Mrs.
Barrè, again.

“Don't 'ee want any thing, ma'am?” inquired the
neighbor next; and this offer was declined with so much
feeling evidently crowding up behind the words, that the
neighbor left wondering, for sympathy.

Thus she sate still; Mary being inside the inclosure
with the priest. How strange it must have been to her
too, that while she herself was so far apart, the child had
secured for herself the companionship of this man!
Truly, how blessed a thing it is that there are these children,
in this evil and formal life, to break through, sometimes,
and snatch with their sure and determined hands,
flowers that for elders only blush and are fragrant within
their safe garden-beds and borders!

Meantime there came up the steep hill the music of the
hymn which here they sing, or used to sing, from the
churchdoor up to the grave.

Up the steep drung with wattled fences on each side,
securing the gardens of different owners, 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 opposite the flagstaff cliff, goes down
the harbor, sheltering the church from the north wind as
it goes. The graveyard has but a single outlet, and,
however it happened, so it was, that the funeral had filled
that single passage, and passed, with the minister in his
surplice at the head, into the humble, waste-looking place
of burial, before Mr. Debree had left it. There were a
few trees, here and there, as small as on the uninclosed

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

land beyond, and behind one of these the Romish priest
had taken stand, and little Mary staid with him.

It is not to be supposed that so strange a visitor should
pass unnoticed, altogether. There were some women in
the company that could not keep their indignation down
at the sight “of the like of him in their churchyard.”
They did not know how the service could go on until he
had been “asked his manin.”

The knowledge, however, that Mrs. Barrè, whose little
daughter was in company with the obnoxious stranger,
had joined the funeral procession, spread itself soon, and
tended to quiet the irritation; the grave voice of Skipper
George,—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 were silent as he spoke,) “'e's a good
gentleman ef 'e be a Roman itself. 'E's been proper
feelun to me, sunce I've ahad my loss; an' 'e never meddled
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 sublime services at the
open earth, turned toward the stranger very likely; but
whosoever saw him, saw him respectfully standing, uncovered,
like the persons immediately engaged in the
burial.

By the time the office was ended, and the people 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 quarter
of the yard where he had been, the mother was seen,

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

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, having
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 Minister, 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.
Barrè 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 I
think he doesn't know how to lead little children by the
hand, as Mr. Wellon does.”

p638-383 CHAPTER XXXVI. THE MINISTER TRIES TO DO SOMETHING.

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

AS things stood, it appeared that, if any thing was
to be done about Lucy Barbury, (to any purpose,)
the Minister 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
deputed one of their number to come to the spot and inquire
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 had
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. Urston, Jesse, and many others in turn)
about the Priest's premises in Bay-Harbor, from the
afternoon in which Ladford's information had been received;
but there ought to be a search there, immediately;
and next, wherever else there might be occasion.

The difficulties in the way were very considerable, and
even formidable;—one half of the population, at least,

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

in all parts of the island, belonged to the Roman Catholic
Church;—a mere suspicion of their priests or religious
persons would irritate and incense them; and an
attempt to invade their premises, and violate the sacredness
of convent-secrecy, and to hold a priest to trial, on a
charge of felony, might provoke them to some violent extremity.
Moreover, a clergyman was not the proper
person to conduct and carry out the necessary measures;
having, in the first place, no warrant of an official character
and authority, and therefore not being qualified to
work to the best advantage; and, in the next place, being
specially obnoxious to the animosity of the Roman Catholics,
and unshielded from its effects; and, besides, being
very likely to involve the Church with himself in a feud.
On the other hand, Mr. Wellon was an Englishman, as
stout and healthy in heart and mind as in body; he was
a thorough friend, and (what takes in every thing in
one) he was a faithful pastor. Accordingly, 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 comes after to God.” He undertook,
therefore, to do what he could find to do. For a few
days he kept himself quiet in his place. Sunday and
Monday came and went, and in these few days a few
slight gains of information were made.

Young Urston (whom circumstances threw into such
close association with the Protestants, and who, moreover,
came to church) grew fast in Gilpin's estimation, by the
skill with which he had found out from the wife of one
of the four oarsmen of the priest's punt, (Micky Khosgrove,)
that two females came in the boat from Bay-Harbor,
and three went back—one sick. This sick person
was said to be one of the two nuns who had come

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

from Bay-Harbor. They had landed at the Worrell, and
came back shortly, one of them having been taken with
a fit. The other nun and a stranger brought her down;—
the boatmen had not left the punt.

No other information of any consequence was added
to that already gained, except that the anonymous letter
bringing Ladford into question, was written by one Tim
Doyle, a zealous Roman Catholic, but not, it would appear,
liable to any suspicion himself in connection with
the unexplained disappearance. The letter had probably
been prompted by mere religious zeal.

It could not be ascertained, in Peterport, that, on the
memorable evening, any young woman had left it, or that
any stranger Roman Catholic woman had been in it at
all. The mystery, therefore, was not lighted.

Mr. Wellon began at the official in Bay-Harbor, who
had come to Peterport, examining in the name of the
larger magistracy. It was the Hon. Mr. Bride, a gentleman
of quite an important rank in the colony. The
merchant-magistrate of Bay-Harbor differed from the
merchant-magistrate of Peterport, more in degree than
in kind. He had seen the world; was a man of very
good presence and manners; he listened to Mr. Wellon's
statement patiently and courteously, but regretted that he
did not see how he could take up the affair; said that authority
ought to be had from one of the judges; and recommended
the application to Judge Bearn, who was
expected in Bay-Harbor in a day or two, and could furnish
the necessary warrant. On the whole, it was rather
an ugly-looking job, he thought, and feared that not much
would be accomplished. He added, however, that “he
had met that new priest,—Debree,—and that he seemed
anxious that something might be done.”

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

From this active functionary, Mr. Wellon went as fast
as he could get away, only requesting that the object of
his visit might be kept strictly private, a request to which
the magistrate replied, with dignity, that it was not his
habit to speak of business except with those to whom it
belonged.

The judge came, as was expected; and it was not long
after his being settled at his lodgings, that Mr. Wellon
made his way to him and secured an appointment for a
private interview. At this, he went through his case,
which the judge heard attentively, and without asking a
question until the statement 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 judge, the arguments
of probability. Judge Bearn 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, rather
than underlie the suspicion of a felony instead of a misdemeanor;
then, that they had not carried her off against
her will, he thought, because of the want of motive;—
she was no heiress.

The Minister argued steadily; mentioned again young
Urston's relation to Lucy Barbury; his abandonment of
the preparation for the priesthood; Mrs. Calloran's character;—
but his great argument was the fact that she had
been at the nunnery. The judge 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,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

but as far as it shows any thing) that the girl, whose intercourse
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 father's house, and along a road that
leads to her lover's door, and to the water-side; no previous
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 belonging 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 equivocations
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 upon it,) would
not be very strange.”

The Minister 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 judge, “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 prospects of ambition
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 uncommonly
gifted in mind and body coming across the religious
prejudices and principles of all, and the interest

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

and cherished plans of some,—(I think I've put it
strongly enough,)—if a chance offers, will they snatch
this girl up, and keep her in durance? In your theory
of what has been done, I believe you leave out the father
of the young man, entirely, and begin at the granny,
(Dux fœmina facti;) she, and the priest and the nuns,
manage it among them. That is one supposition; another
is (or may be) this:—

“The parties before mentioned,—of the first part, as
we say,—old nurse of the young man, and his father, or,
if you will leave out the father, the nurse and the priest,
are conspirators with the girl, to bring her out of the
Church to Popery; she runs away, at the first chance, in
her sick-room clothes, and is secretly carried to the nunnery
at Bay-Harbor.

“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 troublesome,
unprofitable, and dangerous business, keeping a live
prisoner, and as dangerous letting one go. There have
been cases of prisoners so kept, certainly; 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 priest can be found,—without looking,—to take her
in, (Virgil, again, changing one letter, confugium vocat:
hoc prætexit 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, nor of

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

Ladford's, not because I think them of little consequence,
for I think them very important, altogether, and Ladford's,
and perhaps Bangs's, separately. Upon the character
of these men rests the whole burden of proof:—it may
be enough to make probable an improbable hypothesis.—
I should be glad to see them.”

Mr. Wellon stated without reserve the case of his witnesses.
“Mr. Bangs was making some religious inquiries
in Bay-Harbor,” (at this the judge smiled,) “William
Ladford was afraid to be known,” (the judge looked
grave:) the Minister went on to speak of the tie which
seemed to bind Ladford to Skipper George; of the irreproachable
life that he had led, and his apparent penitence,
the good esteem of his neighbors, and in short, so
described him, that the judge became quite interested
about him. “Let me ask,” said he, “(it shall do him no
harm,) was he a smuggler?” (“Yes,” said Mr. Wellon.)
“His name then is Warrener Lane; we've heard of him;
his case is a good deal better than it used to look, for I
noticed that his chief accuser, who was hung the other
day, retracted his accusation of Lane; but he is in such
a position, that not only he might be put to trouble himself,
but his evidence could be thoroughly and irremediably
impeached. Now I'll think the whole thing over.
You bring me these men, (will you?—Ladford, on my
honor,—) to-morrow. I'll determine 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 judge, “I don't see any thing
of the new priest in your affair;—Debree, I believe his
name is now”—

“Do you know him?” asked the Minister.

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

“To be sure I do. I knew him from a boy, and a fine
fellow he was. His father, you know, was a member of
the Executive Council, formerly 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 afterwards took orders.
He 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 Minister sighed deeply, and said that Father Debree
was already much beloved in Peterport.

The next day Mr. Bangs, having been intercepted in
one of his business tours by the secret guard, consented
to come to the judge's lodgings, privately, and, being there,
went through his examination. His way of getting to
a succinct mode of speaking was this:—

Q. “Were you near Mr. Urston's house on the evening
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?”

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 judge.

Ladford, very humbly and most intelligently, gave his
statement. The judge drew him out a good deal in a
kind way, and the man let himself be drawn out.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

When he heard of the pardon, he said with tears,
“Thank God! That's the `one other thing' besides finding
Skipper George's daughter, that I spoke to you about,
Mr. Wellon, t'other day. I should like to die a free
man.”

The end of all was that the judge said,—

“The warrant will be in the hands of the deputy sherriff
in half an hour; he'll execute it as soon as he can,
conveniently and quietly. You must get this Mr. Bangs
safely out of the way till the evening, that he may not
put them on their guard.”

On coming out, Mr. Wellon was sounding the American,
when the latter turned round and said,—

“Look a' here, Mr. Wellon; you want to know if I'll
keep still 'bout the judge, and what not. Yes—I guess
I will. 'Twun't touch Father O'Toole.”

p638-392 CHAPTER XXXVII. A STATION AT HENRAN'S INN.

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

FATHER 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. Barrè'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.

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

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 the southern border of Conception-Bay,
beautiful in its silent rocky strength and varied outline.
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 overhung
and hung around with far-off heaped clouds, turned
up and flecked with crimson, with the bright red of the
furnace and the pale red of the shell, grandly and gorgeously
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 hopes, or thoughts of things 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.

Behind these elders and among 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

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

appearance or the character of a companion, or of the
veterans in front, and one or two of them occasionally
mischievous in joking “practically,” as the phrase goes,
pulling a shawl or ribbon for example, or inflicting sudden
pinches unobserved. Below again,—about the door, inside
and outside,—were a man or two, reserved and meditative,
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 whole company soon disappeared
above.

The office of Vespers passed, in English; and afterward,
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 congregation
came into the back room from the hall, and
kneeling at the backside of the partition, made their confessions.

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

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

alluded to, every time the historic beads appeared;
namely, that it was of disputed and very uncertain proprietorship;
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. However, 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
always, 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 confession; 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 chat and smoke,
and, in some cases, a drink, had mostly gone and left the
place; the stairs seemed empty; when there came in at
the door below and up the stairs, a dark figure of a
woman. Mike Henran, the 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

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

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 outside
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? I'm waiting for you.”

p638-397 CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE TRIBUNAL OF PENITENCE.

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

IT 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
Campagna, 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 Hand, in preparation
for this miniature foreshaping 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 wearing 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 Hell has been prepared,—
Sin is here pardoned, and an angel standing here
records the everlasting Act of Grace; the Divine Spirit
gives the kiss of peace to the forgiven soul, and Heaven

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

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 surroundings
of the Lord God Almighty—but in the seat
of the Eternal King, Maker and Judge—a worm! perhaps,
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 summon
souls before him! Then—What then?

The candles burned there and the Priest sat there.
The clerk was fast asleep, apparently, with his book
between his listless hands, his head upon his breast. The
murmur of his recitation was no longer heard. Those
still hours of the 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 her slowly; but the pause beforehand
and the deep breathing, agitated, earnest silence of the
listener were fitted to make 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,

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

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, which 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 blows 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 I that am waiting? Is it
not I?”

She sank slowly upon her knees, and rested her clasped
hands upon the table; but her veiled face was towards
him and not toward the crucifix. Her voice was touching
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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“Have you been waiting?” said he, with a pause
after the question.

“Yes! Waiting for my hope to feel the sun, and
bloom,” she answered, with a voice rushing fast forth,
floated on tears, but scarcely louder than the habit of the
place permitted;—“waiting for the 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 lingeringly:—“or for trial,—disappointment,—
whatever comes!” and at the last, it seemed
to have gone down into a sepulchral 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 agitated
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 you, Brother!—or, should I say Father?”

“Call me as you will,” he answered, gently and mournfully,
not hastily; “but what can you gain, in finding
me?”

“I have gained something already; I've found, within

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the cold prison-walls of your priesthood, your heart still
living.”

“Sister!” said he, again, with such an emphasis and
pause upon the word, as if he meant that it should speak
its whole meaning, while his voice was agitated as before,
“what right have I here, except as a priest to hear confession
and give comfort to the penitent? and what—?”

—“What right have I here,” she said, in a voice
so low that it did not seem intended to interrupt what
he was saying, though he suffered it to interrupt him.
“Have I any right here,” she repeated, more distinctly,
when he ceased to speak,—“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 though it was) of
his body witnessed; but he did not speak.

“Have I any right?” 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 sadness
in which one might cry out, who was falling, suddenly,
hopeless, into the soft, drifted snow between the
glaciers, and whose words the cold wind behind was
whirling away, wasted in air, she gasped out:—

“`What can be between us?'—Oh!”—and tears

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dripped faster through the hush that followed, upon the
floor. Again, the Priest was moved; and so that tears
flowed from his eyes, also. A moment is a great thing,
when crowded full; and this lasted a moment. Of herself
she struggled forth to firm footing, and said:—

“No! I did not come here to weep;” and, gathering
strength, went on, keeping her feeling down under her
voice:—

“This Office be 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 you!”

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 twitching
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:—

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“You shall have all your right, my Sister.” Then, as
if there were more in the words than he had felt till he
had uttered them, or more pain in the prospect than in what
was past, he bent his head lower, and clasped his hands.

“You would not seek to send me to another to confession,
if you knew of the confessional what I know of it,
by my own experience,” she said.

The Priest started suddenly, as if these earnest, bitter
words were burning coals. He lifted up his face (though
with the eyes fast-closed). It was paler than ever; his
lips were pale and slightly trembling, and his forehead
moist. His agitation was extreme. Again she leaned
her forehead on her hands upon the table, while he
seemed to pray inwardly. Presently, he had mastered
himself enough to speak:—

“Oh! Sister,” he said, “will you not go to some other
with your burden?” And then, as if meeting an objection,
added—“Not to a priest; go to the bishop, or to
Father Terence, at Bay-Harbor.”

“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 confessional,” said he; “it is common
for enemies to charge it.”

—“But what I know of it is not a scandal, caught
from others' lips; it is no horrible suspicion. It is a
frightful fact!”

Father Ignatius, with a hand upon each knee, sat like
a man balancing himself in a skiff, and intent, as if for

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life or death, upon the dangerous eddies through which
he was whirling. She went on, after a pause:—

“I came here, not to speak of that. It 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 doubt into my mind, where there was none,
about a sacred bond between me and another.—” (The
Priest lifted up his eyes to heaven, and moved his lips.)
“There was no doubt before; there was none since.—
Again I suffered myself,—I will not speak of my inducements,—
to draw aside into a convent, to weigh and settle
questions, where no question was, about my Faith, about
my Church, about my Bible. 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

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

said, “when I was free, once more; it came back like a
spring that had been dry.

“There! I have yielded so far to the customs of this
place; and have laid down, at the door of this church, the
sin that was put into my hands at its door; but now I
must break through, cost what it will. I have no power
or skill to carry out a part, and, in pretending to confess,
insinuate what I have 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 urge 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 steady.) “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
priesthood that have robbed me.”

(Poor woman! is that what she has come for?)

“It may seem a frenzy that I 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 have 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

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

tone, “Sed libera 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 perfect silence, with a face intensely agitated.

Once more, at this interruption, she 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; Sunday-lessons; holy books given and treasured;
the awfulness and beauty of God's House and
Service; the kneeling-place beside Father and Mother;
Confirmation; Holy Communion;—I do not mean to
appeal to feelings, though I am a woman;—that argument
can be used on either side;—but I confront that
priesthood that you wear, and ask, Do you feel safe,—can
you feel safe,—giving up such convictions and such obligations
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 weeping,
for a moment, overcame the speaking.—She struggled
on:—“When there is no Pope, no Queen of Heaven, no
Sacrament of Penance, no Purgatory and pardons out
of it, none of the superstition, (let me speak it!) and idolatry,
and absolute dominion over soul and body, which
this cruel, dreadful priesthood brings with it, like a car
of Juggernaut, no dreadful, dangerous intimacy of men
with wicked women; nor subjection of innocent, trusting
women to false ministers of God;—none of this in all the
written Word of God. Preaching of the Gospel comes
in, hundreds of times; and faith, and love, and

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

fellowship; a simple, brotherly ministry, and a church which
is the holy gathering of believers!

“Father Ignatius Debree! — once Minister of the
Church of England!—You have taken to your heart,
and confess with your lips,—(I speak in tears,)—a worship
corrupted, a faith perverted, sacraments changed, a
ministry altered in form and spirit! Yet whatever authority
any one of these has, it cannot turn for witness to
the Bible! Not one of them is in it; and the others
are!

“Can you dare to break down, and tear asunder, and
trample under foot, what is in the Bible, 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 Protestants, as you must
be often, the thoughts of what you have abandoned and
what you have chosen,—of what you have lost, and what
you have gained, will come; and then the memories of
childhood will stretch out their little hands to you; the
faces of other forsaken memories 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 set its love here!
Never! never! And when you feel what it must be,
being false!”—

Again there was a slight noise, as of some one moving,
not far off; but, beside the Priest, only the sleeping clerk
was to be seen. She had been kneeling, and she rose
slowly. There was silence.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

“Is it finished?” asked the Priest, master 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 this impassive
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.

p638-409 CHAPTER XXXIX. FATHER DEBREE AT BAY-HARBOR AGAIN.

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

HE must go to other of the characters of our
story.

Some days after having mentioned to the
priests at Bay-Harbor 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; I've 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 churchbusiness;
but in the end, it fell.

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