University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
A GREAT LOSS.

ON the night of the day of which we have been
writing, (that fifteenth day of August,) Mr. Wellon,
who had come across, in his way home, from Portugal
Cove to Sandy Harbor, in a boat belonging to the
latter place, was sitting late in conversation with Mr.
Kewers, the clergyman of Sandy Harbor, when suddenly
the `Society'[1] schoolmaster, a man of an inquiring and
excitable turn of mind, came knocking at the door, and
announced, eagerly, that some strange work seemed to be
going on in Peterport. He said the lights were moving
about, and there was an unusual noise; something must
be the matter there.

At this intelligence the two clergymen hastily started
forth, in company with the schoolmaster, for Blazing
Head,—the lower and back part of Sandy Harbor,—from
which a view of Peterport (when it was to be seen) could
be had. They reached, after a few minutes' walk, a high
point, and saw the lights, like running sparks in chimney
soot, and heard plainly, over the water, in lulls of the wind,
the sound of human voices. At this hour of night, and
with the wind bringing in the great murmur of the sea,

the far-off sound of human voices was more than commonly
impressive.

The schoolmaster, who had been in the island for a
good many years, said that the scene “reminded him of
the `Ralls'[2] they had years ago.” “There may be a
child lost,” the Minister said, but none of the three pretended
to explain or understand the singular circumstance.
Mr. Wellon determined to go home as fast as possible.

The distance by the road through Wantful, (a little
hamlet adjoining Sandy Harbor, on the same tongue of
land,) and round the Riverhead of Peterport, is about six
miles or seven, and the way is a picturesque and quaint
one; down steep descents, along a narrow beach; round
sharp turns, under wide flakes, blocked up by a storehouse
standing square across it; passing by the little, humble,
holy-looking church of Wantful, on the hill. In the daytime,
and for one who has an eye for scenery of that kind,
and is not hurried, a ride or walk over that road might
not be tiresome; but in a case like this—at such an hour,
and with the rain beginning to fall from clouds which had
been gathering for hours, and with the prospect of a wet,
dark night and morning, the thought of walking round, for
Mr. Kewers kept no horse, (and it was too late to borrow
one,) was not inviting.

Across from Back Cove, where two coopers, John Bissell
and his son, are in the habit of ferrying chance passengers,
the distance is but a mile or so, and the schoolmaster—whose
curiosity was rather eager, undertook to
make arrangements, for he himself meant to go, (if Mr.
Wellon had no objection,) in case he could be of service.

Nearly another hour passed, and then he came again

with the intelligence that he had made arrangements with
Mr. Bissell and his son, promising them a double fee—
four shillings each; (an amount which Mr. Wellon immediately
claimed to pay, with all charges.) This news was
a great relief, after the long, tiresome hours of waiting;
a lantern was borrowed of Mr. Kewers, and in a quarter
of an hour Mr. Wellon and his companion were in Back
Cove; and very soon, under the steady rain, were crossing
the water, in charge of Bissell and his son. It was
so dark that a great, round, peely hill of rock which forms
one side of Back Cove—close to which they were—could
not be seen. They set their lantern in the bow of the
punt, and with a strong, and steady, slow stroke, the boatmen
cautiously felt their way along. The Minister steered,
the schoolmaster, by way of making himself useful, as he
had proposed, armed himself with a spare oar, and undertook
to row, a way of being useful, which, after several
times “catching crabs,” as sailors call it, and once nearly
demolishing the lantern in falling over backwards, he exchanged
for that of holding the light and looking out.

The rain poured straight down, drenchingly; and
(though a good, thick overcoat is almost water-proof,) its
steady falling brought the whole company to silence, as it
had already deadened the wind, and smoothed the waves
down to the ground-swell. In about three quarters of an
hour they made the shore of Peterport, below their point
of destination, and worked up to it.

Marchants' Cove was all still and dark, except a light
in Mr. O'Rourke's house; the lights and sounds were
further down the harbor. The Minister left his companions
here, (the schoolmaster keeping the boatmen's company,
to be sure of his passage back,) and alone went
down the road, and took the first considerable path over

to the Backside, the place to which they had some hours
before been straining their eyes so eagerly, from Blazing-Head.

On the road he met no one as he had met no one in
Marchants' Cove; but as he drew near the meadow in
which Skipper George's house stood, he heard women's
voices, and by-and-by came upon a company, whom by
the ear, not by the eye, he could distinguish as Old Granny
Frank and others of the neighbors. They recognized
him, and announced among themselves, as he drew near,
“the Pareson!”

People in this country take no heed of weather, (when
they have good reason to be out,) except to dress accordingly.

“Well, Mrs. Frank!” cried he, addressing the eldest,
(as Œdipus addressed the old man of the chorus,) but
turning for answer to the others, “what has happened?”

The old woman was doubtless making up her mouth
to speak, but, happily, her grandson's wife spoke for
her.

“Haven'ee hard about Skipper George's darter, sir,—
that's Lucy Barbury,—how she's been atookt out of her
father's house, ever sunce last evenun, and never a word
comed about her, sunce, whatever?”

“Taken away!” exclaimed the Minister, turning from
one to another in amazement, “How do you mean?”

“'Is—sir,—an'—her—bed—wi'—her;” gurgled the
Granny, gaining her speech.

“They'm bin sarchun all over, sir,” added Patience
Frank, “an' Skipper George 's inside now, w'itun for
'ee.”

“Let me see!” said the Minister, staying for no further
talk, but hurrying towards the house.

The old and young women, and others, loitered for a
little gossip, and to hear the end.

“Did 'ee see the Pareson, Grannie, when I told un?
Did'ee see un shake his head?”

“To—be—sure—'e—would,” answered Old Granny
Frank oracularly.

“'E did then; shookt it just this w'y,” continued
Patience. “What do 'ee think, Granny?”

“It—'ll—be—sid,” answered the granny, in her jerky
way. “'E—doned—I—two—shillun—worth—o'—good
—wi'—a—pr'y'r—e'—made—t'oth-er—d'y.”

“Did um, then? I shouldn' wonder!”

“Wull! — some—says—an-gels—an'—some—says—
faa-ir-ies;—but—I — knows—what—I—thinks,—” said
the possessor of threescore years of observation and experience.

“All so, Granny!” assented Patience, who, if she
should live so long, was in a fair way to be as wise, “I
thinks gezac'ly the same.”

“Ay,— child,— it—'ll — be — sid — a-fore—ma-ny—
d'ys—be—up;” and the old body hurried away, while
she had her mystery entire.

As the two speakers separated, the little gathering drew
nearer to the cottage-door, with new food for speculation
in the granny's utterance, which had, somehow, invested
the subject in a more ominous perplexity than before.

The clergyman passed straight to the chimney, where
the afflicted father sat, among many others, indeed, but
the one of them all. There he was; not even smoking
the accustomed pipe, but with his hands upon his knees
and his chin buried in his breast, looking upon the kitchen
fire. He did not sit despondently and slouchingly, but
upright like a man; and like a man who, having done

whatever could be done as yet, was waiting to set forth
again and do whatever might be left for man to do. A
crowd of neighbors made their way in after Mr. Wellon.
All rose, except the father, at the sudden entrance of the
Minister; the father did not notice it.

At the sound, however, he immediately turned round;
and a more honest, manly, kind, true face than his, has
seldom met the open air, and the broad sunlight, or fronted
tearing wind, or drenching rain, or driving snow; had
seldom met warm welcome from the wife, as it was seen
through the half-opened door, or beamed complacently
upon the frolic of the children at the hearth;—but it was
clouded now. He took off his weather-worn straw hat, in
rising to receive the Pastor.

“Sarvant, sir; you're very welcome home again,” said
he.

“Why, Skipper George!” said the Minister, “what is
it my good friend? Do tell me!” Then pressing him
silently to a seat, the Minister sat down to listen.

“Ah, sir,” the father said, “I've a-sid heavy misfort'n
sunce the last sun as ever rose. It's my Lucy, sir; you
know'd her sir,”—his voice breaking,—“so well as I
a'most, and oh! how she did love the Minister to be sure!
well, sir, she was sick from short after you laved the
harbor tull this evenun: that's 'isterday evenun, I should
say.”—He sighed as he thus reminded himself of the
time already gone, by which the separation had been so
much widened.—“She was goun through the worse of it,
and we thowt, naterally, that as she didn' get no worse
she would get better, if it was His will, and so the doctor
said, (that's Dr. Aylwin, sir, of Brigus.) So when I turns
out in the marnin 'isterday,—which I doned nearly about
wi' the first sun,—after I'd said my bit of a pr'yer, I says

to myself, as a body will, you know, sir, I says, now I
think I'll jes go down to B'y Harbor, mubbe, after I got
through fishing, and get a marsel o' figs,[3] or sech-like, for
my poor, dear maid; hopin, mayhap, the faver m'y take
a turn, and then they'd help her to goody a bit; and anyhow
I had a two and sixpence that I'd a-kep this many's
the d'y against I may want it, and a body likes to do
summat cheery for a sick darter when he can; so I goes
and I looks upon her, and, to my seemin', she looked jest
as ef it wus an angel a layin' there, that had put on my
gal's look, and her face, and her hair. She looked so
bright somehow,—so oncommon bright, I was a'most
afeared to kiss her; but I did, sir, thank God; I did, sir,
and it seemed in a manner, to bring my darter back; for
she says, very low like, `Father!' she says, `What lovey?'
says I; `Dear father!' says she, and nothin' more; and
I couldn' help it, but I cried much as I'm doin' now, sir;
but I do'no why I'm so long a tellin' it, on'y I'm afeared
to get upon the rest of it. However, I went out and
comed home wi' my few fish, and hurried and got off and
went over to Backside, and got myself put over to Bread
an' Cheese Cove, and so travelled afoot the rest part o'
the w'y, and got the trifle o' things, and came round by
Castle B'y river-head. I s'pose I might be gone a matter
of six hours, most likely; when I got to the top 'o the
hill by the church and sid the house, I s'pose I might 'a
felt it was empty; but I didn't, sir. It seemed, in a
manner, as ef strength blowed out of it, somehow, to me,
I growed so much livelier; and I stowed aw'y my little
parcels in my pockets, thinkin', perhaps, she'd feel in 'em,
pl'ying like, as she'd oose to do, when she feeled herself
better. So I walks up to the door, and lo and behold it
was open; but I thought nothin' strange and I went in,
and right into the place where I'd aleft her, sir, and she
wasn't there. `Mother!'—says I; but my missis wasn't
there: `Granny!' says I, but she wasn't there; then my
t'other little gal that was sittin' down by the door, tryin'
to tie her shoe, and cryun', said, `Daddy, she's gone aw'y,
Daddy,' she said, `Daddy, she's gone aw'y, Daddy;' and
my heart went once jest as a fish would go, and I never
asked her who she maned, but I sid there was somethun
tarrible strange; and so I sat down on the binch and gave
one great sigh like, that seemed to ase me; and then I
got up and tookt my poor little papers and put them on
the bed, and follyed right out to see ef I could find what
had becomed of her. So we sarched all evenun, and we've
asarched all night; and so—I'm sittun here, as I be
now, sir,—'Twas a bad night for she!—Ah, well! God
knows.”

As he said this the bereaved man sat and wept, openly
and steadily, in silence. Not a motion was made nor
a word said until he wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand, and turned his honest, manly face again, and said:—

“I found my mistress; an' I found Granny Palasher;
an' I sid Miss Dare that was just comun up; I could find
every body; but we never found my dear young maid!
It isn' like we woul', sir. God's will be done, however.
'E'll do what 'E sis best.”

The simple story ended, he turned quietly away from
his hearer, as if there were nothing more for him to say,
and he would listen now.

The Minister came up and took his hand in both his,
and said “Amen!” There was a general motion among
the company, and many repeated the word. The Minister's
voice trembled as he said—

“God bless you! Skipper George; we must find her,
or find —” He paused.

The fisherman made that most expressive gesture of
head and hand which is read in all languages, and touches
any class of men, meaning—

“Ah! you needn't say it, sir! I know.”

“Let's see where we are,” said the Minister, and he
turned toward the company, among whom was the constable.
“Mr. Gilpin, you know all about it?” he asked
of this worthy man, who was, also, one of the two smiths
of the place. Charles Gilpin—“Mr. Galpin,” “Mr. Gulpin,”
“Skipper Charlie,” as he was variously called, was
an Englishman, middle sized, with a face dark by nature,
and always wearing a shade of grime from his “forge,”
and slightly pitted by the varioloid. His right eye was
wanting, having been destroyed by an accident in firing a
salute on the king's birthday, in one of his own younger
hours. The remaining orb in that firmament seemed as
much brighter as if the other had been absorbed into it,
and had joined its fires. He was an intelligent, pleasant
looking fellow, with that quick motion of the muscles
about the eye that marks the possession of humor.

“I've done my best at it, sir,” answered the constable,
with modest brevity.

“Who saw Lucy last?”

“I can tell 'ee, sir, ef 'eell plase to let me,” said the
brave old fisherman. “I've got it all by heart, in a
manner. 'Twas Granny Palasher happened to be bidin
wi' her, (for we didn' oose to have reg'lar watchers d'ytimes,
sir, only we never laved her long,) an' so Lucy
waked up and called for a drink, granny says; an' she
didn' want tay, an' she did'n want spruce,[4] an' she wanted

a drink from the Harpool—that's it in the hollow under
the bank, t'other side o' the church, you know, sir; an' so
the granny went aw'y to fetch it, never thinkun o' nawthun,
of course, an' nobody's sid a sign of her sunce, only
poor little Janie said she goed round the corner.”

“How long was the granny gone?”

“I can' be exac'ly accountable, sir, how long she was
aw'y; she m'y ha' stopped to pass a word wi' a nighbor,
sartainly, but 'twouldn' be long, it isn' likely.”

“Who lives nearest on the Backside? The Urstons, I
think.”

“Is, sir; Mr. Urston that married my missis's niece.”

“The father of the young man that was going to be a
Romish priest?” asked the Minister.

“'Is, sir; but 'e've knocked off beun' a good while sunce,
and 'e's a good lad,” said the father, shutting off all suspicion
in that quarter.

“How do things stand between your family and their's,
now?” asked the Minister.

“Mr. Urston's wife was my missis's sister, 'ee know,
sir,—that is, half-sister,—and then my missis is a good
bit younger, and was abrought up in England, mostly,
tull she was a woman. 'Twas Mr. Urston an' his son put
me over from Backside to Bread-and-Cheese Cove. I
maned to ax Tummas Turtas,—lives a bit beyond they,—
when they were goun down to waterside, and offers me a
passage, an' I could n' deny 'em. Ah!” he said, coming
back to his great grief, “she's alossed now, that I would n'
loss for all the fish in the sea, and swiles on the ice, and
fruits o' the land! Thank 'ee, kindly, sir; I ax pardon
for bein' so troublesome. 'Ee'll plase to excuse me,
nighbors.” So saying, Skipper George prepared to go
forth again.

“It isn' d'ylight, yet; is it?” he asked, putting great
restraint upon himself.

“Light's beginnun to come up over, Uncle George,”
said Prudence Barbury.

Here the memory of the pleasant times and pleasant
words that were gone, or the thought of sadness present
or to come, again overcame him, as also his words and his
condition were more than some of his sturdy neighbors
could bear.

“She was too good for this world,” said one; “an'
that's where she's gone, most like.”

“No, Nahthan, it won't do for 'ee to say that,” said the
father; and then explained. “They manes that God
have tookt her, sir, (blessed be 'E's name!) as 'E tookt
Enoch, in a manner, because o' what Jesse sid; (that's
my nevy, Jesse of Abram,—lives under the brow o' the
hill,—Jesse Hill, we calls un;) I didn' tell 'ee, sir. 'E
was over on the water against Backside, wi' another,
jiggin' for squids,[5] an' 'e sid somethin' like a maid or a
'oman, all dressed in white, like an angel, goun over
Backside-w'y; and, all of a suddent, she was gone right
aw'y like. 'E couldn' tell ef the groun' was stove, or
parted under her, or how, 'e said; but it seemed to be
gone right aw'y, an' they never sid her come, no more;
and so 'e comed right aw'y home, and told the people 'e
thoft 'e'd asid a spirit; but sure, there's nawthin' in that,
sir; is there? On'y, mubbe, it might be a kind of a
visage,[6] like, that my poor child would never come
back.”

“There may be a good deal in it,” answered the Minister.

The eyes of all were intently fixed on him, and the
father, even, lifted his from the fire.

“I don't think it was any spirit,” continued their Pastor.
“What clothes had Lucy on, most likely?”

“Oh! nawthin', sir, but just as she was in bed. It 'ud
make a strange body cry, a'most, to see 'er poor frock
hangin' up there, and 'er two shoes standin' by the side o'
the bed, an' she aw'y, an' never comun back, most
likely. Many's the time I've alooked at they, sunce, an'
cried; it looks so heartless, like.”

The people about Skipper George were no “strange
bodies;” and some of them could not help doing as he had
done, and as he did.

“Now, sir,” said he, rising to depart, and holding his
weather-worn straw hat in his two honest hands, “I think
'ee knows all.”

“I wouldn't have you go out again, just yet,” said the
Minister. “I'll take my turn, now, and any fresh hands
that I can find.”

“Here's one, then, sir,” exclaimed the constable, starting
to his feet.

“Haven't you been out all night?” asked the Minister.

“Yes, sir, but not all day yet; we've got the day before
us. I can sleep when we've got done.”

“Then I'll be back, God willing, in little more than
half an hour; and, if you please, we'll go as far as we've
any thing to guide us. I want to go over the ground, at
least, if nothing comes of it.”

“I'm sure 'ee woul', sir,” said the father, in a very
kindly way. “It's no use; I can't lay out plans now.
I've got my handès, and something to make 'em work;”
(one might almost see a great, grieving heart heave, as

he said this.) “I'll bide 'E's will; an' ef I never sis her
walking on this land, I may in a better, ef it's 'E's will.”

As he spoke of not again seeing her, in the body, he
brought up, with the palm outward, his honest, hard hand
whose fingers were bent with long years' toil, and thrust
away some too attractive vision, and, as he said the last
words, brought it down again to its former occupation of
holding the rim of his hat.

He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon
pressed his honest, hard hand, he lifted to his Pastor one
of those childlike looks that only come out on the face of
the true man, that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around
ring, adding each after-age to the childhood that has
never been lost, but has been kept innermost. This fisherman
seemed like one of those that plied their trade,
and were the Lord's disciples, at the Sea of Galilee,
eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and blood
inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.
Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,)
poet, painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever; how fresh
and fair such an one looks out from under his old age.
Let him be Christian, too, and he shall look as if—shedding
this outward—the inward being would walk forth a
glorified one.

“Sit here, among your neighbors, Skipper George,”
the Minister said; “I mean to be back shortly.—Another
great grief and mystery in our little harbor!” he added,
as he turned away.

With these words, he left his sorrowing parishioner's
house, and went forth.