University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
SOME GOSSIP AND SOME REAL LIFE.

IF an outlandish frigate had come in and furled her
broad sails, and dropped her heavy anchors, and
swung round to them, with her strange colors flying,
and lowered away a half dozen black boats, and held them
in tow at her side and astern, and lay there, with foreign-looking
marines pacing in her main chains, and a crowd
of foreigners swarming on her decks, there would have
been some stir in the quiet little town of Peterport, and
its quiet neighborhood. The people would, probably,
have managed to go out to the ledge to fish, and the
women would, probably, have contrived to spread and
turn their fish on the flakes, and hoe their gardens,—all
besides gratifying their curiosity; and those who might
come from afar to gaze upon, and ask, and talk about, the
outlanders, would, probably, get through their usual day's
work besides; but, far and near, and for a long time, the
thing would be in their thoughts and in their talk, on
land and on water, at flake and at fireside.

So it was with the coming of the Romish priest to
Peterport. The people talked, and wondered, and feared;
and some one or two of the warmer-spirited wives proposed
to have him driven off.

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

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

Young Urston's case, and the epidemic that had settled
itself in Marchants' Cove, and seemed, now, to have laid
hold on Lucy Barbury, divided, with the other topic, the
public mind of Peterport. There was a general wish
that the Minister were in the harbor, as well for the sake
of the sick, (of whom, though none died, yet several were
affected with a lasting delirium,) as for the safeguard of
the place against the invasion of the adverse Priest.

The upper circle was a small one:—The Minister, the
widowed Mrs. Barrè, the Warners, and Miss Dare; the
merchant, stipendiary-magistrate, and churchwarden, Mr.
Naughton; Mr. Skipland, a merchant; Mr. McLauren,
the other churchwarden, living near Frank's Cove,—a
worthy Irishman,—(the three latter being unmarried
men,) and, lastly, the O'Rourkes, Roman Catholics, made
the whole round. The members of it had some subjects
of interest beside, but they had chiefly the same as those
that occupied the planters.

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

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

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

“I'm well enough, Fanny, thank you: but you're looking
pale.”

“Well enough?” asked Miss Dare, again; for the
covering over the blood in Mrs. Barrè's cheeks was very
thin, and her eyes were hasty and anxious; her two
hands, which Fanny held, were hot.

“Yes; well enough for my need, Fanny.”

“Yet your life is wearing out,” said the girl, earnestly,
“as you said.”

“I have to use a good deal of it. It goes into the work
I have to do.”

Mrs. Barrè tried to smile as she said this, but made no
great effort for it.

Again her friend asked, anxiously, “Does it go on?”

“I don't know how it goes;—perhaps like piling up
water; and my chances are as rare as spring-tides. But,
pray tell me, how is Skipper George's daughter?”

“There's not much change yet, I think. Dr Aylwin
was there last evening, while I was with her, and told
me he thought the fever like that in Marchants' Cove,
but with many symptoms of inflammation of the brain.
He says they vary very much, in different cases, according
to constitution and other things; scarcely any two are
alike. I fancy the poor child may have suffered some
severe disappointment! she wouldn't tell of it, if she had.
He doesn't say what he thinks of her, except that she's a
very sick girl. She's perfectly crazy.”

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Barrè. “I do hope she'll
get over it!”

Fanny Dare went on, without sitting down,—

“Her father keeps up his stout heart, and speaks
cheerily; but he must have hard work to do it. As soon
as he comes in, he goes straight to her bed, and stands
and looks at her; and he does the same before he goes
out: and always finds something or other to do about her.
I think his wife gives him a chance, on purpose; you
know what a delicate sense she has.”

“Is she crazy all the time?” asked Mrs. Barrè.

“I believe so: she was, all night. When she was
awake, she raved the whole time; and in her sleep, kept
talking incoherently. Her raving was very sad, but
it was beautiful. She talked of twenty things that I
shouldn't have thought she knew. Sometimes, she fancied
herself out at sea, and called to the winds and sea-birds,
and clouds, and waves, and stars—if I could only remember
some things she said; and sometimes, she fancied
herself inland, among mountains and caves, or meadows,
or streams. Then she'd answer some person, perhaps,
and argue. It was very different from herself; but all
was so good and innocent, even when it wasn't at all like
her.—I want to sit up again, to-night; for the doctor
means to come over again; and he expects the crisis.
She needs close and intelligent care.”

Mrs. Barrè looked up, with a faint smile:—

“I'm afraid that's not the only reason why you want
to go, Fanny,” said she. “To-night, you're to stay here,
as you promised, with Mary; and I'm to watch with
her;—and do sit down. I'm sure you ought to be tired.”

“I'll tell you the very truth,” answered Miss Dare,
complying; “it is not only because I want to see the

doctor, but I really think I'm fitter to watch at night than
you are.”

“And you were up last night!—Oh! no: I shall keep
you to the first arrangement. It isn't much for me to
lose a night's sleep; but you're not used to it.”

“You think you're getting used to it?” said Fanny.
“Do you know, my dear Mrs. Barrè, how you've changed
within a few days? You must try to rest; certainly not
undertake new labor.”

“I don't know,” answered Mrs. Barrè, “that I'm not
as well as usual;” but there was an anxiousness in her
eyes, and a careworn look about her face, as well as a
nervous agitation in her manner.

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

“Yes; I would really rather. It would be a relief, as
well as a satisfaction to me,” said Mrs. Barrè.

“Well; then, I'll go back to my aunt's, and come down
after tea.”

So saying, Miss Dare took her leave.

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

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

There was scarce any sound, except from the sick
maiden, who very constantly spoke or strove to sing.

As once a light was carried in and used about her, it
was a touching sight to see the girl who lately was so glad.

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

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

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

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

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

She slept late into the day.