University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.
A NEW MAN.

AS Mr. Wellon left the room, the attention of the
company was drawn to a new voice, that seemed
almost to have been started mechanically by the
general rising, so suddenly, and without warning, it began,

“Why, she's cleared out 'n one 'f her hot spells, an'
when she'd got light-headed; 's no kind o' doubt o' that
'n my mind,” said the strange voice.

The speaker was an under-sized man, of thirty-eight
or forty years, with well-looking features, and bright, intelligent
eyes. His scanty hair went curling downwards
from a bald spot on the top of his head, for which, also, a
part of the neighboring locks were compelled to furnish a
thin covering. The baldness had been worn rather by
the weight of the months' feet that had gone over it, than
by their number, or had been dried by inward heat of
busy thought; his dress was such as would become a
higher sort of mechanic, or a trader on a modest scale.

The sentence seemed to be delivered forthright into the
middle of a world all full of opinions, and questions, and
determinations, to find itself a place. He looked before
him, but with eyes that seemed to look at the same time
to either side, and his tone had a character of continuance,
as if—having begun—it rested with circumstances
when his ending would be.

The company having composed itself, after the Minister's
departure, the new speaker was seated, tilting back
in his chair, with his right ancle resting on his left knee,
and his hat in his lap.

“Wall then,” he continued, “question is, which way d'd
she go? 'F course every body's got to judge f'r 'imself
'n that point, but I guess w' might come p'ty nigh it, 'f w'
were jest t' talk it over a little.”

While saying this the speaker took an opportunity to
glance at each of the remaining speakers of the former
dialogue, and at the rest of the company generally, and
meeting with no let or hindrance, seemed to think that he
had found a place for his opinion, and went on more confidently
than before. He did not look at Skipper George,
at whom he chiefly talked, but looked to the left hand of
him.

The father regarded him with grave earnestness. The
constable, after flashing his eye at Skipper George,
watched, curiously, the new interlocutor; and the other
neighbors listened with different degrees of eagerness.

“'S I understand f'm what's ben said t'-night, 'n 'f'm
what I've heard before I come—('m pooty much t' home
'n Peterport, ben here twelve hours o' daylight, an' 'taint
a large place)—'t's pooty gen'lly und'stood, I guess, 't
this young lady, 'r gal—whatever ye may call her—'Ster
Barbury's daughter, here,” (turning to the fisherman, who
said, “Is, sir, thank'ee, my darter, an' more than darter
for the like of I;”) 's be'n sick 'f a sort 'f a—typhoid
they call 'em 'th us,—same 't they've had down 'n Marchants'
Cove, there, 's ye call it. Wall! I never saw s'
many folks out o' their head 'th that fever 's they is here,
not reg'lar hoppin mad, but out o' kilter 'n the upper
regions, 's th' sayin' is. Wall, now, 'n the hot fit come

on, 't 'd make her stronger, an' when her mind 's out o'
the way, ye see, 'twould, likely, make her want t' try an'
do somethin'.”

The interest with which his hearers had been listening
was evidently not flagging.

“It's Mister Banks, the American marchant,” said Patience
Frank, (for she was there,) to a neighbor-woman.

“Wall, then, question comes: what would she do?
Why, 'cordin' to. She wanted a drink o' water, f' one thing;
wall, s'pose she 'as very dry, sh' might go off to git some,
likely. 'F all she wanted was water t' cool her, sh' might
take 't into her head to git into the water; but, then, bein'
crazy don't make a fool 'f a gal, 'f sh' wa'n't one b'fore;
and they wa'n't any thin' lik' that 'bout this young lady.
Then, don't ye see, the' was lots o' folks, by all 'counts, on
the flakes, (ye call 'em,) an' round, an' one of 'em 's her
mother; so she didn't go down that way, whether or no.
Wall, then, again, 'tain't likely she was all thust; she had
some notions b'sides that: (we ain't all flesh and blood, I
guess.) Le's see.”

It was strange to see the unflagging attention of the audience
to this lengthened argument, given, as it was, with
no attractions of oratory, or enforcement of gesture, except
an invariable sticking of the thumb and forefinger of the
right hand into the palm of the left, (much as we have
known a good old Greek professor to practise with his
pencil and a hole in his inkstand.) There was a persistency
and push in the arguer's voice, and an adhesiveness
in his expressions, that carried his reasonings in, and
made them stick. So there was a general assenting in
words, besides silent affirmations and negations of the
head, as he affirmed and denied.

“That's a clear case!” “Surely!” “All so, sir!” and

the like, refreshed the speaker much as the parenthetic
“hear” and cheers of the House of Commons, or as the
plaudits of the Athenians gratified Demosthenes.

The constable, as if his cue were only to keep official
eye and ear upon the speaker, let him go on, without
meddling with him, and kept silence. The father heard
Mr. Bangs with steady attention.

“Wall!” continued the reasoner, “then comes question
again; which way? Sis' says right, no doubt. Sh'
went right round the corner o' the house, an' down to—
back part o' the place, here—”

“'Is; Backside, sir, we calls it,” says a neighbor.

“Wall, 't's a good name, no doubt. The's two roads
goin' 'long, up an' down, I believe—”

“'Is, sir,” said one of the neighbors; “there's the
summer w'y and the winter w'y, by Cub's Cove, and
the Cosh, and so into the woods.”

“Fact, I' ben on both of 'em myself,” continued the
speaker. “Then the's a path goin from Skipper George's
(s'pose I ought to call him)—”

“It's a compliment they pays un,” said the constable.

“Don't heed it, sir,” said the stout fisherman; “George
is plenty good enough for I, alw'ys; and, most of all,
now.”

If the kindness that lies in such compliments embellishes
common times, there is no danger of times of sorrow
wanting them. The reasoner resumed, keeping the title
now that he had got it.

“The's a path from Skipper George's right acrost these
two roads, (that is, ye call 'em roads 'n this country) wall,
I guess she kep' the path t'll she got to these two roads,
('f ye call 'em so,) f'r 't's plaguey hard makin tracks outside
of a road, here—(fact, 'tain't al'a's the easiest travellin'

in 'em, b't that's 'nother question,)—she kep' the
path t'l she got t' these two roads, an' then question is,
which way? She'd take some way certin. I guess ye'll
think we might 's well try t' hear 'em 'lectioneerin' 'r
talkin' politics 'n the moon, 's try t' guess what was in her
mind; but look a' here, now; s'posin' she'd heard o' the
old gentleman's goin down t' Bay Harbor; she might
want to go after him; but then, here's this story o' Jesse
Hill—'f that's his name. He saw her, accordin' to his
story, (f'r, I take it, th'r' ain't 'ny reas'nable doubt b't
'twas the gal he saw,) where she must ha' ben on t'other
path. Now I understand gals sometimes take a notion t'
care f'r other folks b'sides their fathers; 't seems to ha'
ben the way with 'em, by all accounts—f'm Grandm'ther
Eve, 's fur 's I know. I don't say how 'twas in this case,
but she must ha' ben a takin' piece herself, b' all accounts
—an' then, if the' was a k'nd 'f a runnin' idea 'f someb'dy
'n her mind, why, somehow 'r other, she'd be very apt to
folla that idea. She didn't show any sensitive feelins,
did she?”

“I don' rightly understand 'ee, sir,” said the father, “I
ben't a larn'd man 'ee know.”

“Sh' didn't feel 'ny tender 'motions, I s'pose? That
is, she hadn't taken a notion to one more'n another?—
young man I mean, livin' somew'e's round?”

The father answered gravely, but with the same hearty
readiness as before—

“I know a father can't, mubbe, feel proper sure, alw'ys—to
say sure—of his darter's heart; but so fur as a
man can be sartain, I'm sarten sure my Lucy would
never have agrowed to e'er a body, knowunly, athout my
knowun it, as well. There was a neighbor's son, surely
—that's young Mr. Urston we spoke about—mubbe there

might have somethun' come out o' that; but they'm Romans,
and my poor, dear maid loved her Savior too much
to hear to e'er a Roman. She'll folly her own church,
thank God, while she's livin', or ef she's dead, as is most
like, she'll never change now, to ought else, only better
an' more.”

“No more she woul', Skipper George; that's a clear
case,” said Zebedee Marchant.

“Wall, on'y jest started proposition; 'hope 's no harm
done. Ye think the' wa'n't forbid to keep company; do
ye? Wall; on'y 'f 'twas my gall, (but the' ain't 'ny Miss
Bangs, yet, I guess,—but if 'twas,—) should be willin' t'
bet a fourp'ns hap'ny—('t's a coin ye hain't got 't's equal
to,—wall, 't's a small sum o' money, b't if bettin's t' settle
it, should be willin' to bet)—they know som'th'n 'bout her
'n that family. Ruther think the folks 'n that house,—
(called in there, a minit, an' as'd f'r a drink o' water,
seein' the' was a light burnin; didn't see anythin out o'
th' way, p'tic'lar, but,)—ruther guess, 'f they were put to't,
they've seen or heard of her, one o' th' two. Ye see,
there's that punt, 's ye call it, 't the cap'n the brig, there,
saw 'th th' nuns, or what not, in't; (fact, I saw 'em m'self,
—that is, I saw one great black one, 'n' a couple 'f other
women,”—here there was great sensation among the
hearers,—“w'n I's peekin' round the house, to see what's
goin on;) should like, pleggily, to know what the nuns
were up to, 'th their punt, an' what 'twas they kerried
down—Wall, 'f those folks do know, it's pleggy strange
though! Wh', anybody 't had got the feelin's 'f a man, 'd
go on his hands 'n knees round all outdoors—wall, he'd go
a pooty long chalk, any way—f'r a neighb'r 'n distress.”

“Young Mr. Urston 's a good lad,” said the father;
“an' the family ain't a bad family, ef they be Romans.”

“Wall, I've said 'bout all I've got t' say, p'ty much.
Ye're welcome to it f' what 't's worth. 'Find th' ain't
goin' to be much to do, 'n the way o' business, t'll they
come back f'm Labrador, 'thout I take to lecturin' a spell,
—(got 'n exhibition o' dissolvin' views; used to charge
one an' six, Yankee money; m't make it a shillin', currency,
here; but)—'f the's anythin' goin' on, while I've
got spare time, here's one man ready.”

“Thank'ee, kindly, sir,” said Skipper George. “I'm
sure, it's very good of 'ee to take so much consarn wi'
strangers.”

“Wall, 'don't feel's though folks ware strangers, when
they're in trouble. B't 't's 'bout time f' me to be trav'llin',
I guess,” concluded Mr. Bangs, who had taken up his
hat, and made a start out of the way of thanks. “Do'no
'xac'ly customs here, ye know;—l'k a fish out o' water,
ye may say. Make my compliments t' th' Parson, 's ye
call him, 'f 't's ruleable, 'n' tell him 'promised t' put up
'th s'm folks 'long down the harbor. Wish ye good-night,
all!”

So saying,—the gathering of neighbors in the room
opening and letting him through,—he went out into the
open air and the morning twilight, and walked away with
short, quick steps, swinging one arm.

“Well!” said the constable, releasing his long attention
in a deep breath, “there's a fellow that'll git under way
without waitun for tide to float un off, any how;” and,
with this remark, the constable, also, went hastily forth.