University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE DAY FOR REST.

ON the next day, Sunday, it may well be thought
that the church showed signs of general sorrow;
tidings had come from every quarter, and nothing
could be heard of Lucy Barbury. Before the flag (which
had not, that morning, flung its white cross abroad upon
the fresh air, but had hung heavily) was hauled down,
the little parties, by land and water, gathered, anxious
and agitated-looking, instead of wearing the Day's peace;
and silently and straight down the road, with his broad
head bowed, came Skipper George, without his wife, and
escorted by Jesse Hill and Isaac Maffen on the one side,
and Mr. Skilton (the second smith) on the other. Several
women, of his family and neighbors, followed him in
silence. As the brave man came to the point at which
he was to turn up from the road to the church-door, he
gave one glance over to the sea, and one over the land;
then, as if forgetting himself, took off his hat in the open
air. At the instant, every man's head was silently uncovered,
and every woman dropped a silent courtesy.

It had been customary to chant the Canticles and
Doxology, as well as to sing the Metre-psalms and
Hymns; but this day, the chief bass (Skipper Charlie)
was not in his place. Mr. Piper's violin,—which, for love

of the owner, a good-natured Irishman, was allowed to
set the pitch and go with the voices,—did not appear;
and (what was the great want) there was no heart for
singing. Even the Clerk, Mr. Williamson, trying to
lead, broke down. The answering of the people was
more full than usual; and when the priest, at the petition
“to succor, help, and comfort all that are in danger,
necessity, and tribulation,” added, “especially George
Barbury, our brother, and his family,” thus binding their
special sorrow to the prayer of millions, and of ages, the
great voice of the congregation trembled; and again, at
the next petition, for them that travel by sea or land,
there was a general feeling, as if a wind from the deep
Bay or dreary Barrens had blown in. So morns went by
at church, sadly. The Minister preached, out of his heart,
about the Lord's having all in his hand.

After the forenoon service, Jesse edged himself up to
the Minister, and said:—

“'Ee could n' 'ave e'er a funeral sarvice, could 'ee, sir,
for Uncle George, to comfort un up, a bit?”

Gilpin was near enough to hear, (indeed, good Jesse
looked aside to him, during the saying of it, for his suffrage,)
and the eye of the constable twinkled; but he did
not smile at the honest fellow's mistake.

“Please God, we may find her alive yet, Jesse,” said
he.

“I wish we mought, indeed, Mr. Gulpin,” returned the
fisherman; “but I don't think it.”

Isaac Maffen shook his head, in melancholy confirmation.

“You won't forget Mrs. Barrè,” said Miss Dare, to the
Minister, when she had opportunity.

Gilpin followed the magistrate, Mr. Naughton; and,

having come to speech with him, began to lay his case
before him.

“It 'll be cleared up, Charles,” said the magistrate, sententiously,
by the time they got to the solid part of it.

“Not without taking the law to it, I'm thinking, sir,”
said Gilpin.

“You couldn't do any thing about it on Sunday,” answered
the stipendiary.

“It isn't a civil prossess, you know, sir; it's criminal.”

“That depends upon what it's called,” said the magistrate;
“but I'm obliged to go away, as soon as possible,
out of the harbor. If there's any thing to be done, I'll
attend to it when I come back. I shall act deliberately.”

So saying, the Stipendiary hurried through his own
gate.

Gilpin looked after him, a moment, with a curious twist
on his lips; then, nodding his head, as if he knew of
another way, went up the harbor. Mr. Naughton's house
was apart from the road, and near the cliff on which the
flagstaff stood.

The constable passed the drung[1] that led up to his
forge and dwelling, and keeping on, to Mr. Worner's,
knocked at the door, and asked for Miss Dare.

He took off his hat, and scratched his head with his
forefinger, in the presence of the young lady; and then,
having obtained leave to speak with her a moment, on
important business, he changed her astonishment into
extreme agitation, by saying, “I've come about Skipper
George's daughter, please, Miss Dare.”

“What of her?—Is she found?—Is any thing heard
of her?” she cried, turning paler than ever, but keeping
command of herself.

“Not exactly, Miss; but there's some track of her,
I believe. I think there's some living, and no great
ways off, that could tell about her, if they were made
to.”

“Well, I know you've got plenty of honest hearts and
hands to help you: but if money is needed, or will do
any thing, don't spare it. It won't be wanting:—and do
follow out the least thing, won't you? I wish I could do
something more about it.”

“I'll try and do my part, with a heart and a half,” said
the constable; “and there is something, Miss, if you'll
excuse me for thinking of it;—it's a little uncommon,
I know. If you'd only just please to speak to Mr.
Naughton, and get un to do something.”

“But I'm not the person,” said the young lady, “to
speak to Mr. Naughton about his duty.”

“It looks strange, I know,” answered the constable;
“but Mr. Naughton isn't like everybody. I've been to
un about it, and I couldn't do any thing with un. `He
hadn't time: he was called away.' I knows un. He'll
be out o' the harbor in half an hour.”

“But the Minister would be the proper person to speak
to him.”

“It's a busy day with his reverence,” said Gilpin;
“and besides, Miss, there's no time to lose; he'll be along,
directly.”

“But what am I to try to do?”

“To get him to take up some parties that are suspected,
please, Miss Dare.”

“What! not of murdering her!”

“No, Miss; I don't know what's been done to her.”

“Well, I don't want to think about it, till we know
something more; but if I can do any thing, I'm sure I

will, with all my heart, as you say. Certainly I'll speak
to Mr. Naughton, if that's the case.”

“Thank you, Miss; and I'll go out the back way, if
you please; he mustn't know that I was here.”

After the constable's departure, Miss Dare stationed
herself near the garden fence by the road, and presently
the solid, flat horse-tramp, which brings to the mind instinctively
the image of a man rising and falling in the
saddle, on a very hard and slow-going beast, came to her
ear. After a time, the horse and his rider made their appearance,
the latter seeming to be getting on faster than
the former, except that he never got over his head.
Which saw Miss Dare first, (for, though there was some
shrubbery, there were no trees of any consequence on
Mr. Worner's premises,) cannot be said; the effects on
each were simultaneous. Mr. Naughton did not let it
appear that he was conscious of her presence, unless involuntarily,
by coloring and looking more deliberately to
each side of the road than usual, and by unusual attention
(between whiles) to his steed. It seemed to him
proper to go over that part of the road (which was level,
with the fence on one side and storehouses on the other)
with a sidling, curveting, prancing, and other ornamental
horsemanship; and he sat up for it and reined in for it.
Meantime the horse (men called him, familiarly, “Donk,”
from a certain sparseness of hair upon his tail) was willing
to sidle,—made one duck with his head towards the
curveting, (and, in so doing, got the bit between his
teeth,) but wished to dispense with the prancing, as a
vain and superfluous performance. His notion seemed
to be that the sidle might be made useful as well as ornamental,
and might bring them up to the fence where the
young lady stood; and then he could nibble the grass, or

shut his eyes and meditate, while the two human beings
amused themselves with conversation.

The beast succeeded: Mr. Naughton put the best grace
upon it that he could, and sat up on his steed, a short
man, with small eyes and large whiskers.

Miss Dare's address to the magistrate gave no evidence
of her having seen any thing ridiculous in his progress.

“You're not going away just now, of all times, Mr.
Naughton, surely,” said she, “when you're the only magistrate?”

“Am I to flatter myself, then, that my going or staying
is of any consequence to Miss Dare?”

“Certainly; and to every body in the place.”

“I knew a magistrate was of some little consequence
to the state and to the community,” returned the stipendiary,
gracefully; “but I wasn't aware that my going or
coming was of so much importance.”

“What!” when this dreadful case of Lucy Barbury
stands as it does, and when some persons are suspected?
Who's to do any thing, if the magistrate's not?”

“I'm of opinion that it won't be necessary to invoke
the law,” said Mr. Naughton. “I think not.”

“I don't know what you mean by `invoking the law,'”
said Miss Dare; “but if you mean doing something—.”

“It isn't to be expected that ladies should comprehend
the abstract province of the law; that seems rather a
perquisite of the sterner sex,” said Mr. Naughton.
“How do you like the new chancel arrangements, Miss
Dare?”

“Oh! I can't talk about ecclesiology. I didn't see any
thing; but if any body's to be taken up, does your commission
extend so far? Or must they send to Sandy-Harbor,
or Bay-Harbor?”

“My commission is of the most extensive description
—I could arrest any man in this harbor”—answered the
magistrate, sitting up straight and drawing in his breath,
“It's under the Broad Seal.”

“Now, if any thing can be done in this case,—” she
said, seriously.

“The majesty of the law will be vindicated!” said the
stipendiary, with emphasis. The worst part of him, by
the way, was outside, in every one's sight and hearing.

“Then you're not going away, are you?” said Miss Dare.

“It was important for me to leave the harbor, notwithstanding
it's Sunday; but within an hour I shall be
back. What we do must be done deliberately, but firmly.
I think we can satisfy the moral sense of the community
and Miss Dare.”

“There can be only one feeling in the community,” said
the young lady, as Mr. Naughton drew suddenly up the
rein, to resume his progress.

Animation seemed to be diffused through the body of
the quiescent Donk by electricity, (though not so fast as
lightning,) for the memorable tail went up by a jerk, like
that of the more intelligent member, to which the bridle
was attached, though with a slight interval. Mr. Naughton,
this time, attempted no caracoling or capricoling, but
studied to combine the several wills of man and beast on
one continuous (and pretty rapid) motion. If he did not
at once nor entirely succeed, even with frequent sharp
spurring, Miss Dare was not there to see.

At Evensong, the magistrate was in his place at
church; half an hour afterward, having briefly listened
to Charles Gilpin, he issued the decided order:—

“You'll bring those parties before me by ten o'clock
to-morrow morning.”

“I shall want a warrant, you know, sir,” said Gilpin.

Whether the stipendiary had forgotten, or wished to
consult his “Justices' Assistant,” he maintained his dignity,
and, at the same time, the symmetry of his arrangements.

“You'll call for that at ten o'clock this evening,”
said he.