University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
A WALK AND THE END OF IT.

THE acquaintance between the young and interesting
widow and Miss Dare had immediately,
from the outset, become an intimacy; and the
latter was almost as much at home in Mrs. Barrè's house
as at her aunt's. Sometimes she brought her needle-work,
sometimes a book, and sometimes she came empty-handed.

Mrs. Barrè's favorite seat was at her chamber-window,
that faced the west, and looked up the harbor along the
road.

The chamber was a very plain one, but it had a few
pretty pieces of furniture, and some smaller things, that
were quite elegant.

A Bible lay—generally open—on a little table, with
her Common Prayer-Book and a few other books.

Here she was sitting, as usual, a day or two later than
the date of the last chapter, when her friend came in.

“Can I persuade you out, this morning?” asked Miss
Dare; “it's a lovely day.”

Mrs. Barrè seemed to be considering or absent-minded
for a moment; she then hastily accepted the invitation.

“You need the fresh air; your hands tremble,” said
her friend, taking one of them and kissing it.

“Do they? My heart trembles, too, Fanny.”

Mrs. Barrè exerted herself to smile as she spoke. She
then put on her shawl and bonnet, and they went forth to
their walk.

It was, as Miss Dare had said, a delightful day, without
wind, and with an atmosphere into which the spicy fragrance
of the little grove of firs, near Mrs. Barrè's house,
and the coolness of the salt water, spread themselves
gently around, and in which far-off things had about them
a dreamy haze. The walking seemed to give new life to
Mrs. Barrè; and instead of shortly proposing to turn
back, she only asked, at Marchant's Cove, (a half mile's
distance from home,) whether her companion felt tired;
and being answered with a hearty “No,” 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, which 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. Barrè's pensioners; the next—a hovel at a little
distance—was that of a man with 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 the first touch.

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

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. Barrè came, he started in extreme astonishment,
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. Barrè's look was full of the intensest feeling.
Miss Dare watched the sudden and most unlooked-for
scene in surprised and agitated silence; Mrs. Freney and
her family in wondering bewilderment.

Mrs. Barrè 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. Barrè, with a woman's confidence and directness,
turned to what must have been a common memory between
them:—

“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 feeling.
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. Barrè,
who stood looking fixedly upon him, he said sadly:—

“How can I, then, but say farewell?”

“How can you not, when I come asking?”

“No,” he answered, “I follow plain duty; and not unfeelingly,
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 said, turning her look up
toward the sky, which did not hide or change its face.
Then Mrs. Barrè'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. Barrè, though unable to speak, mutely resisted the
invitation to go back into the house, but persisted in going,
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
me, though so utterly separated!”

At the sound of a hasty step approaching, she started
and looked forth. It was Mrs. 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. Barrè 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 she'd plase to let her
get it.” This offer, like the other, was declined, with
thanks.

The ladies walked back more silently than they had
come, and more slowly, Mrs. Barrè resting more than
once by the 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 her
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. Barrè 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, kissing
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 expose

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

“Nothing can make me a Roman Catholic!” said
Mrs. Barrè, “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 different from
others,” said Miss 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'll ask Mr. Wellon.”