University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
MRS. BARRÈ AND MISS FANNY DARE.

MRS. BARRÈ, though she had been here for a
few weeks only, all the harbor knew and many
loved; partly from pity, for she was of high
breeding and young and stricken, as all eyes saw; partly
from admiration, for to the finer eye, she was one that
had the best instincts and a rare mind and conscience, so
quick and true and thorough were her thoughts and feelings,
when they came forth of her sadness and seclusion.

She had lost, men said, the husband of her fresh youth
and days of hope; and, since her coming, of two sweet
children, one, the boy, had gone from her arms and from
her sight, as all men knew, and his body lay with other
cold earth in the churchyard of Peterport.

The single English servant whom she had brought with
her was proof at least against the unartful curiosity of
planters' wives and daughters. What was generally believed
or surmised, was that she was rich; that she had
brought a letter of credit to the house of Messrs. Worner,
Grose & Co., and a pastoral letter from England to Mr.
Wellon.

Such, then, as she was, and so living, some understood
her; and many who could not well have appreciated
delicacy and refinement, or greatness of mind and soul,

loved her because so patiently and lovingly she opened
the door of her own life, and came forth and laid her
heart to theirs; and she had found here one friend whom
she might have chosen, had she had the world to choose
from. This was Miss Frances Dare, a niece of Mr.
Worner, the senior of the Liverpool firm, living here.
Miss Dare was a fine, spirited, clever English girl of
twenty, who staid here just as quietly as if she were not
fitted to shine in a larger and fairer part of the world
than this, and as if she had not money enough (as she
was reputed to have) to indulge her tastes and wishes.
She it was who had planted and trained and arranged
the growing things about the house which Mrs. Barrè
occupied, and which belonged to Mr. Worner.

The two ladies had, this day, when Mr. Wellon called,
walked out together down the harbor.

The Minister, after leaving his companion, walked fast;
but he had walked for half a mile down the winding road
before the fluttering garments of the ladies were in sight,
as they lingered for the loiterings 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. Barrè 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 “Ètudes à deux crayons,”
if it could only have done justice to the life of her
fine features and glancing eye, and wavy chestnut hair.

Little Mary Barrè, a sweet child, threw her arm, like
a yoke, around the great dog's neck, where it was almost
hidden in the long black locks.

“I'm glad not to miss you, Mrs. Barrè,” said the Minister,
after the salutations, “for I'm expecting to be away
to St. John's to-morrow; I can only try to show my sympathy—any
other benefit I can scarcely hope to render.”

Miss Dare led her two livelier companions on, leaving
the Minister and Mrs. Barrè 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.

“Oh yes, indeed!” said Mrs. Barrè.” I feel the presence
of God with His ministers. I hope I may always
have faith enough to draw the benefit from it.”

“It's a blessed thing for us and for those to whom we
are sent,” answered Mr. Wellon, “that we can use the
Lord's divine words, that have a living power in themselves
to find the soul and comfort it. I shouldn't dare
to bring any others to one who bears sorrow as you do;
for I feel that, as a man, I must learn, instead of teaching.”

“My thought and feeling,” said Mrs. Barrè, answering
to one thing in the Minister's sentence, “are so occupied,
that I can only take sorrow in; I cannot be taken up by
it. My child is happy;” (tears came at thought of him,
however.)

“May I ask, in the way of my office, whether your

occupation is with a former grief? Don't answer me, if
I ask too bluntly.”

“No; with a work which is the chief part of my life
—almost my very life. I haven't told you, and I cannot
tell you yet, Mr. Wellon, what one thing occupies me
always, and brought me to this place. I should be very
glad to open my whole heart to my pastor, if I could;
but I cannot yet, for others are concerned, or, at least,
another, and I have no right to communicate his affairs
to a third person, even a clergyman.”

“Only let me sympathize and be of what service to
you I can,” said the Minister; “and don't think that I
shall complain of the measure of confidence you may
give me.”

Miss Dare and her two companions had drawn aside
from the road to a shoulder of rocky ground, ending in
cliff; and stood beneath a flake, one of whose posts went
up beside them. As the Minister came near with Mrs.
Barrè, Miss Dare invited them, by a silent 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 Whitmonday
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 the Minister,
looking genially down. “Yes; if any thing can make
good Skipper George's loss, his daughter may.” Mrs.
Barrè moved a little further on, after looking down, and
stood apart.

“Don't let her see us,” said the pretty exhibitress
eagerly,” or it will break up my scene; but musn'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 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 expression
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 Minister 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; but, 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
Parson, looking down again over the cliff. “And what's
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 Minister had uttered his question.
Then, without waiting for an answer, she continued:—

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

“Assailing 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 organ
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 the priesthood.”

“No! I'm told the complaint is, that he's given up all
thoughts of the priesthood.”

“That leaves him a Roman Catholic,” then said the
Minister, like a mathematician.

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

“In a case of that sort it must be made sure, beforehand;—if
there is any such case,”—he answered.

A sigh or motion of Mrs. Barrè, drew their attention
to her. She was still standing apart, as if to give freedom
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 of the Minister.

“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 his kind,” said Miss Dare.

“Very handsome; very elegant; very interesting: with
one of the most wonderful tongues I ever heard.—I shall
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. Barrè;—“then he has
come!”

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 Minister.

“Yes;” she said.—She was very much agitated. Before
either of her companions spoke, she added, “We're
nearly related; but religion has separated us.”

The minister 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. Barrè
spoke again:—

“I knew that he was coming, and expected him;” she
said. “You won't wonder, Mr. Wellon, when you know
more about us, as you will, one day; but don't be afraid
of me. Your English letters are from those who know me
and my history; and whatever may pass between me and
this gentleman, Father Debree,—if any thing,”—(she
paused, almost as if she should not be able to go on,)
“there cannot be any danger to my profession. It has
been tried before.—You won't suspect me?” and she gave
him her hand.

“Certainly not;” said the straightforward Parson.
“Only let me know whatever I can do for you.”

“Thank you! I will. I've got a work to do;—or to
work at, if I never do it;—for it may wear out my life.—
There's always heart-work with a woman, you know.”

Some great, strong stream of life seemed to be flowing
in her, of which one might catch a glimpse through her
eyes, and of which one might hear the sound in her
words.

“We must be sure that it is our work,” said the minister
gently, “before we undertake what may wear out our
life.”

Mrs. Barrè answered thoughtfully, though without a
pause,

“In my case it cannot be mistaken. You will say so,
by-and-by, I'm sure.—I have told you that I am nearly
related to Father Debree,” she said, hesitating a little at
the name,—as she had also hesitated before, “I'm deeply
interested, too. Does he look well and happy?”

“He has rather a sad look,” said the Minister.

“Has he?” she asked. “He hadn't, always; but I
can't say that I am sorry if he's not altogether happy.”
Her own eyes were full of tears.

“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 little 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.