University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
SEARCHING STILL.

AS the constable and his company drew near the
“Worrell,” whither Epictetus, the Minister's dog,
had gone immediately on finding himself at
large, Mr. Wellon and the man whom he had taken down
with him were coming up.

“Here's something that may have been her's,” said
the Minister, turning to his companion, who held up a
plain white cap, which all crowded about and looked
upon, in sacred silence.

It was marked with red thread, already faded, “L. B.”

Jesse had uncovered his honest red locks before it,
and more than one of his comrades put the back of his
hand to his eyes.

Presently the general voice said sadly, “That's Lucy's,
and no mistake.”

“It was part of that figure that Jesse and Isaac saw,
I think,” said the Minister, in the same tone.

“Do 'ee think 'twould wear a real cap, sir?” asked
Jesse, who doubtless looked upon what he had seen, on
the evening before, as a preternatural sight.

“I think it was her real self,” answered Mr. Wellon,
looking wistfully upon the path, which seemed to have
been the path of death, or strange disaster, to the girl

who had so lately been one of the chief joys and beauties
of the place.

“Where did you find it, sir?” inquired the constable.

“At the bottom of the Worrell, on the sand under
one of the punts that Zebedee turned over. It may have
floated in on the tide.—I think you told me that boats
were out along the shore here and round the point?”

“Ay, sir, Cap'n Nolesworth and George Kames, you
know, his mate, were round Castle-Bay harbor, and some
are down now, by land, to Bay-Harbor, and to Brigus;
Jonathan Frank one way, and Skipper Henry Ressle
t'other way. Young Urston, here, was out all night wi'
a lantern, sculling into every place along shore; but there
wasn't a scred nor a scrap to be found; and Solomon
Kelley and Naath Marchant were out till morning; but I
think now we'll get some track of her, please God, dead
or alive.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Wellon, “if she's alive, as I
hope, we must hear from her; or if she's lost in the
water, as she may be, we may hope to find her body.
(God help us!) We must get word to every place that
she could go to.”

The lifeless relic that they had recovered, heavy and
dripping with the ocean water, while it brought them
near to her in one respect, yet gave deep meaning to the
suggestion that she might have perished in the sea; and
in this way it seemed to impress them all.

“If I can get a crew, by and by, I'll go round the
shore, and give one look by daylight,” said the Minister.

“Ef 'ee'll plase to take me an' Izik,” said Jesse Hill,
“we'll be proud to go along wi' 'ee, sir.”

“'Deed we woul',” said Isaac Maffen.

“You've been out a good deal already, though,” said
Mr. Wellon.

“Well, we can afford a little time, Pareson Wellon,”
said Jesse. “I don' know who's got a right, ef I haven',”
and Isaac assented: “All so, Jesse.”

“An' I'll make another, if 'ee plase, sir,” said Zebedee
Marchant.

A fourth offered immediately, and the crew was complete.
This fourth was the quiet man several times mentioned.

“We'm got somethun to be doned first, afore that, I
suppose, sir,” said Jesse, turning gravely round toward
the wet cap which Zebedee Marchant bore, and which, at
this reference, he raised in silence.

“I think we'd better keep that until we come back,”
said Mr. Wellon, “and then we shall have something, at
least, if we get nothing more. Will you take charge of
it?”

“Whatever 'ee says, sir,” said Jesse gravely; “I'll
take 'un ef 'ee says so, sir;” and so saying, the honest
fisherman, Skipper George's nephew, spread a great blue
handkerchief upon a rock, and taking the cap from Zebedee,
placed it in the handkerchief, and carefully turning
over the corners, said:—

“Thank 'ee Zippity; 'e'll be safe wi' me; so 'e was wi'
you, too.” He then carefully held it with both hands.

“We'll take time to get something to eat, and then be
off, as soon as we can,” said Mr. Wellon.

The excited state of Jesse Barbury's feelings may have
given readiness and directness to his words, for he said
immediately, addressing his pastor:—

“Pareson, would 'ee be so well-plased now, mubbe,
sir, as come an' take a poor morsel o' tay wi' us, ef I

m'y make bold. It's poor offerun' sir, I knows; but my
missus 'ull be clear proud.”

Isaac Maffen enforced the invitation in his fashion;
saying, in a moderated voice, “'Deed she woul', that's a
clear case.”

Mr. Wellon accepted, at once, the ready hospitality;
and Jesse, saying “Come then, Izik,” led the way over to
his house, with a very steady, careful step, and without
speaking. Skipper Charlie was not among the company
at the moment; the other fishermen, besides Jesse and
his mate, took care of themselves.

The cap was deposited safely upon the Family Bible,
to await their coming back from the new expedition; and
then Jesse's wife, a pretty woman, once Prudence Frank,
from Frank's Cove, (glad enough to exercise hospitality
for the Minister,) urged him, modestly, to “plase to make
use o' the milk,” (which is quite a luxury among planters
of the out harbors,) and of the `scrod,'[1] and all her simple
dainties.

In a few minutes they had finished their hurried meal,
and were shortly at the water-side. Zebedee and the other
were already there.

They skirted the shore along by Frank's Cove, and
Mad Cove, and round Mad Head and Castle-Bay Point.
Nothing had been seen or heard that would throw light
upon the mystery, and the Minister set out to go back on
foot along the beach and the little path by the water's
edge on the Peterport side, while the boat's crew made
the best of their way by water.

The beach was strewed with empty shells, and weeds,
and rubbish, and whited with a line of foam, and, as it
chanced, among the other worthless things there lay a

woman's shoe which Mr. Wellon ran to, and snatched
eagerly, but saw at a glance, was nothing to his purpose.
He threw it from him into the water, and his dog, exulting,
leaped in and secured it. His search was done, and
he went slowly home.

When at length after waiting hours, that information,
if any were to come, might come, he sought Jesse, who
was the depositary of the little thing recovered from the
sea; the day—the last of the week,—was drawing towards
evening, and twenty-four hours had passed since Lucy's
strange and sad disappearance.

“I said I wouldn' start un tell 'ee comed, sir,” said Jesse.

“'Ee did so, Jesse,” said Isaac, who was still with him,
and without delay the little procession set forth.

The fisherman bore the relic reverently in his two
hands, and carefully and quickly, as if it were an unsubstantial
thing of frost, that might be wasted by the way.
Near the door of the house of mourning, Jesse and Isaac
drew aside and would not go in, and Jesse gave the slight
memorial into the Parson's hand, and he, uncovering
himself, went in alone.

Skipper George, who sate silently in his chimney-side,
with his wife and little Janie, rose up and took off his
hat on seeing his pastor; the wife courteseyed and wept.

The Minister put the relic into his hand, without
speaking.

“Have 'ee—? 'Is, sir,—'Is, sir,” said the father, confusedly,
taking the precious thing, but turning it over as
if he could not see it, for something in his eyes, “it's
her's, it's her's. Ah! God's will be done!”

Mr. Wellon said nothing of the constable's hope or
expectation of tracing her.

The mother sobbed once, and wept silently, and Skipper
George rallied himself.

“So! so! mother,” said he, soothingly, “this 'll never
do! There, there! take it and put it by; mayhap the
dear maid 'll wear it agin, in short, please God.”

The Minister's eye was caught by a lead-pencil-drawing,
that lay on the bench.

“That's her doun, sir,” said the father, sadly.

“I did n't know she could draw,” answered the Minister,
taking into his hand the paper, blurred somewhat,
and blistered.

“No more did n' I, sir; it was the last doun she doned;
we found it next day where she dropped it, when she
went to bed. She must ha' larned o' Miss Dare, or the
widow-lady.”

The Minister gazed long at it, and then said,—“I don't
know much about drawing; but I should say there was
great talent here. I can't think how she should be able
to do this ice.”

“Athout she minds about the ice comun in, years ago,
when she was a little thing, about so big as Janie.”

“It's wonderful, really!” said the Minister. “This
vessel going off, and the man left behind.”

Skipper George said, in a low voice,—

“Ay, sir, that vessel never comed home again! Nor
no word ever comed of her!—Will 'ee plase make a
pr'yer, sir?” added the father.

All kneeled down by the fireside; the mother crying;
the father full of woe as he could hold, but more full of
faith and will, and little Janie holding fast in both hands
some stones with which she had been at play.

The Minister prayed for help to find the lost child, and
for grace to do and bear God's will, and to learn meekly
His lesson.

“Would n' 'ee be plased to set fast, sir?” asked the

fisherman, as his Pastor moved to go. “Well, sir, we
shall be proud to see 'ee again; and—it comes heavy to
bear; but we'll do our best, wi' God's help.”

The sturdy man followed the Minister to the outside
of the house, and then, lowering his voice, said,—

“I've abin to B'y-Harbor, sir, an' I've abin to Brigus;
but there's nawthun, sir!”

“By land?” asked Mr. Wellon.

“'Is, sir, an' put my poor ol' sorry face into amany,
many houses—but they were kind, sir, they were all
kind, sir. They sid I was heavy hearted, an' they were
very pitiful over me.”

“Why, you've been forty miles!” said Mr. Wellon,
rather to himself. “It must be; besides being out all
night. You must take rest. It's a duty.”

“'Is, sir, an' to-morrow 's Sunday, and even when the
Lord was dead, they w'ited an' `rested on the Sabbathday,
according to commandment,' afore ever they 'd 'balm
'E's blessed body. There isn' e'er a thing to be doned
now, sir, that I knows, an' I m'y as well rest bumbye,
an' ef I can't, mubbe, get sleep right aw'y, I can pr'y
for un, however.”

“And good days will come, I hope, shortly.”

“Ay, sir, they 'll come,” said Skipper George. “They
'll come!”

How far ahead he looked, he gave no sign; but he
spoke confidently.

“An' I know she'll find home,” he said, “ef she never
comes to this place no more, sir. There's others have
agot sore hearts, so well as we. That good lady that's
loss'd 'er husband an' 'er child, takes stren'th, an' comforts
them that wants, an' I musn' give up.”

Mr. Wellon pressed his hand and left him.

As he came out upon the ridge from which he was to
go down to the road, his eye was caught by the flash of a
white sail, and he stopped to gaze.

It was the Spring-bird gliding fast by the land in her
way out to Bay-Harbor, from which she was to clear for
Madeira. A ship's silent going-forth is a solemn thing,
and to sad minds a sad one. There was silence too on
board the brig, in this case, in tribute to the prevailing
sorrow of the little town, and she had no streamer or flag
flying at peak or truck.

—Does the sea hold the secret?

Along the wharves, along the little beaches, around the
circuit of the little coves, along the smooth or broken face
of rock, the sea, which cannot rest, is busy. These little
waves and this long swell, that now are here at work,
have been ere now at home in the great inland sea of
Europe, breathed on by soft, warm winds from fruit-groves,
vineyards, and wide fields of flowers; have
sparkled in the many-coloured lights and felt the trivial
oars and dallying fingers of the loiterers on the long
canals of Venice; have quenched the ashes of the Dutchman's
pipe, thrown overboard from his dull, laboring
treckschuyt; have wrought their patient tasks in the dim
caverns of the Indian Archipelago; have yielded to the
little builders under water means and implements to rear
their towering altar,—dwelling,—monument.

These little waves have crossed the ocean, tumbling
like porpoises at play, and taking on a savage nature in
the Great Wilderness, have thundered in close ranks and
countless numbers, against man's floating fortress; have
stormed the breach and climbed up over the walls in the
ship's riven side; have followed, howling and hungry as
mad wolves, the crowded raft; have leaped upon it,

snatching off, one by one, the weary, worn-out men and
women; have taken up and borne aloft,—as if on hands
and shoulders—the one chance human body that is brought
into land, and the long spar, from which man's dangling
cordage wastes, by degrees, and yields its place to long,
green streamers much like those that clung to this tall,
taper tree, when it stood in the northern forest.

These waves have rolled their breasts about amid the
wrecks and weeds of the hot stream that comes up many
thousands of miles, out of the Gulf of Mexico, as the
great Mississippi goes down into it, and by and by these
waves will move, all numb and chilled, among the mighty
icebergs and ice-fields that must be brought down from
the poles.

Busy, wandering, reckless, heartless, murderous waves!
Have ye borne down into the ravening mouths of the
lower Deep, the innocent body of our missing girl, after
that ye had tossed it about, from one to another, untwining
the long hair, one lock of which would be so dear
to some that live; smearing the eyes that were so glad
and gladdening;—sliming the—

Oh! is that body in the sea?

—There is more than one mystery in little Peterport.