University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A SAD YOUNG HEART.

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

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

slender line of blue along the brim. At least he might
have known it, and what fair hand had often borne it.

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

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

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

“They'd—oose—to be—tar-ri-ble—boy-ish—when—I
—know'd—'em.”

One of the laughy gurgles came after the words, like
one that had been separated from its companions.

The more vigorous Granny Palasher proceeded.

“Now, will 'ee be so well plased as”—

“I'm in a great hurry, Granny,” interrupted the young
man, not changing color, or seeming disconcerted, but
with a look of grave determination, “and I can't very
well call there this evening.”

“Oh! 'Ee haven' agot time; have 'ee?” said the
old woman; then explained to Granny Frank: “That's
that pretty Lucy Barbury, Granny!” Upon which the
latter urged another laugh up her dry throat, and a few
more words.

“'Mm! So—I've—ahard!”

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

The young man did not stay for parley.

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

The granny made this comment on his speech:—

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

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

“Isn'—'e—a—Ro-man?”

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

“'Is; but there's no danger o' she.”

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

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

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

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