University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
SUSPECTED PERSONS.

WE pass to the next day, the vane of suspicion
having, within twenty-four hours, (though no
man could say that any wind had been blowing)
got round, and pointed straight to Mr. Urston's house.

On the Sunday afternoon, young Urston had been at
church, and, after service, Skipper George had called the
young man to himself, and walked with him quite over to
the Backside. He was not suspected; but rumors had
got about that three females went away in the punt, in
which only two had come.

On this Monday morning, that sound so interesting to
boys and men, of hammer ringing upon anvil was not
heard at Skipper Charlie's smithy; nor that other, of
blended human voices, telling, asking, speculating upon
the news or gossip of the place; for here, where are no
barbers shops or coffee-houses, every thing that is to be
told and heard is brought to the smith's forge, and, being
heated hot, is laid upon the anvil, pounded, turned,
and pounded into a final shape. The smith and constable
himself,—whose manifold name of Gilpin, Galpin,
Gulpin, might remind one of the derivation, Nipkin—
napkin—diaper—draper—TAILOR, or the more classic
ἀλώπηξ—πίξ—pax—pur—fuchs—FOX—was, at about
eight o'clock, walking quickly, with several companions,

along a path that led from near his house downward on
the Backside. With him were William Frank, commonly
called Billy Bow, Zebedee Marchant, Nathan Marchant,
Jesse Hill, and Isaac Maffen, who had severally (except
the last two) fallen in behind him at different points,
like the involuntary followers in some of the German
Kinder-märchen.

“Can 'ee walk in ef the door shouldn' be open, Skipper
Charlie?” asked Billy Bow, who was considered a
great humorist by his neighbors.

“It'll go hard if I can't get into e'er a house that's got
a door or window, open or shut,” answered the constable.

“'E's got to keep the king's peace,” said Billy Bow;
“an' I'm afeared 'e'll get it broke into a good many pieces.”

“Ef the constable kicks up e'er a rout, boys,” said one
of the others, “'e've got a good many craft in tow, that
can keep un from hurting 'isself.”

“It would'n' be good subjecks, an' show respec' to the
king, ef we didn' favor 'e's constables, after 'e's abin and
tookt the trouble to appoint 'em, an' 'e's trusty an' well-beloving
yeoman, Mr. Charles Gulpin, petic'lar; we mus'
give 'em a chance to do their dooty, 'ee knows, Skipper
Charlie,” said another of the posse comitatus.

“Let me ketch ye givin' me a chance, (without there's
good cause for it,) and I'll do my dooty on you, very
quick,” returned Skipper Charlie.

With such simple attempts at wit, did the quiet and
good-natured Newfoundlanders follow their “officer;” and
with such downright authority did the officer maintain the
dignity of the law and the constabulary. Other topics
also occupied them: Jesse was engaged in literary criticism;
having listened at the window of the Wesleyan
Meeting-house, at a funeral, and then given, to a Wesleyan

friend who asked it, the opinion he was now repeating:—

“`Abner,' I says, `there was text out of Scripture,
sure,' I says, `an' a little about how we ought to do,' I
says; `jus' like anybody; an' then varses an' scraps o'
poultry, an' such; an' then more, agen, an' so on; but 'e
wasn' a proper-growed sarmun, at all,' I says; `not what
I calls proper-growed.' So then he couldn' say nothin';
when I telled un that, 'e couldn'—”

“Come, Jesse, he couldn't answer you,” said the constable.
“Now, you half, go across here,—(I don't want
any more; if any comes, send 'em back,)—and, when ye
git within hail o' the house, bring up, all standing, and
lay to; an' don't stir tack nor sheet, till I tells ye. They'll
be just about coming in from the water.”

So—giving his orders, like a good general, in his people's
familiar tongue—Gilpin went on with the other half
of his followers. Presently, he sent off a second detachment,
with like instructions. While still a good way off
the place, he and his companions were astonished at seeing
in front of them, going fast in the same direction, the
tall, strong figure of the bereaved father.

“We'll follow un, without sayin' any thing,” said Gilpin;
and accordingly, on overtaking him, they kept
quietly in his rear.

On Skipper George's becoming aware of his being followed,
he turned about.

“Save ye, kindly, nighbors!” said he. “Ef 'ee 'm
goun for company, it's proper kind of 'ee to take part wi'
a poor, afflicted man, lookun for 'e's loss. I've ahard
they knows somethun o' my dear maid at Mister Urston's,—I
can' think it! I can' think it!—an' I'm goun to
ask un in plain words.—I can' think it! I've asid fine

children tookt from me ere now, (an' 'E's got good right!)
an' it's 'E's will, most like, to take she.”

He said no more; and they, in their way, comforted
him:—

“Mubbe we'll find her again, Skipper George, for
all.”

They came silently to the door, and the father knocked.
When he entered, Gilpin, and Frank, and Jesse Hill, and
Isaac, went in as his companions. The opposite door of
the house was just closing upon “the new priest,” Mr.
Debree.

“Do 'ee know any thing about my maid,—that's Lucy
Barbury?” the father said, in a voice scarcely articulate.

The only occupant of the room remaining was Mrs.
Calloran.

“Is this Misther Barbury, thin?” she asked, somewhat
agitated at the invasion of so many men,—most of whom
were not very friendly-looking.

“You ought to know un well enough, if you don't know
un,” said the constable.

“But I didn' come about any thing, only my dear
maid,” said Skipper George, beseechingly; “ef 'ee knows
any thing about her. Have 'ee hard?”

“I'd best call himself,” said Mrs. Calloran; “he's just
at the Worrell, beyont.”

“Ay! call un, please,” said the constable; adding, as
she passed out of hearing, “but, if anybody knows any
thing, you're the one, I'm thinking.”

The father, while they waited, stood with his face
against his hand upon the wall; his grizzled locks looking
so innocent and touching, that, as William Frank said
afterwards, “a body could sca'ce look at un wi' dry eyes;
it was so feelun, like.”

Mr. Urston came in very frankly, showing no surprise
at the number of persons present, and answered, before
he was asked the question, “that he did not know where
Mr. Barbury's daughter was; he wished he did; he
wouldn't keep it to himself long.”

Skipper George, who had turned round at the sound
of footsteps, sank heavily down into a chair. It was
evident, from the effect of these words upon his feelings,
that, in spite of himself, he had not only feared but hoped
something from this visit, and that the hope was now
smitten within him.

“Look to un, some of ye!” cried Gilpin. “Handle
un gently.”

“N'y lovies,” said Skipper George, catching his
breath, as if he had been through a severe struggle in the
waves, “thankee! Whatever was o' George Barbury,—
thank God! thank God!—it bides here yet; on'y two
tarrible heavy blows on the same place,—that's lossing
'er before, an' now, agen, lossin' that false, foolish hope,—
have abrought me down. I'm a poor, sinful Christen;
but I am a Christen, an' I can get up.—I believes 'ee,
Mister Urston; I'm sorry to trouble 'ee; but 'ee knows
I've alossed my child! Some thinks 'ee'd want to turn
her from her religion; but, ef 'ee had e'er a chance, 'ee
wouldn' make a cruel trial of her dear, tender heart, nor
her faith in the dear Saviour she loved an' sarved sunce
ever she knowed 'E's blessed name! Would 'ee?”

There was something very affecting in this speech and
the father's tears that accompanied it.

Mr. Urston said that “if ever he should hear of her, or
find her, or any trace of her, the father should hear of it
as soon as he could get the word to him;” and he said it
with much feeling. “They were of a different religion,

perhaps, but not of a different nature. He felt for him
from the bottom of his heart.”

“Her faith's nothing that can be turned about,” said
James Urston. “It would go through fire unhurt.”

At this, Mrs. Calloran made some remark aside, which
could not be overheard. Skipper George thanked the
young man, and rose to go, declining, kindly, the hospitable
invitations urged upon him.

“Go with un, Jesse,” said Skipper Charlie; and Jesse
and his adherent went out with him.

“Now, I've got a bit of disagree'ble dooty to perform,”
said the constable, as he proceeded quickly to lay his hand
upon one after another of those present, and to arrest
them.

“This is my Warrant,” said he. “I'm doing my dooty,
and I'll do it as civilly as I know how. I'm commanded
to have the bodies of Bridget Calloran, and Thomas
Urston, and James, `before me, the worshipful Ambrose
Naughton, Esquire, Stipendiary Magistrate, &c. &c.; as
witness my hand and seal of office.'”

Gilpin's proceeding astounded Mr. Urston and his son,
and was very exciting to all present; to whom capiases,
and warrants, and writs, are strange things. Even the
smile with which Gilpin (who was more familiar with
such things—theoretically, at least—) read Mr. Naughton's
indirect assertion of his official dignity, did not take
from the excitement.

“Sure, an' is this English law, thin, that they brag
about? Bring up their bodies to examine thim! Kill
thim first, an' try thim after!” exclaimed Mrs. Calloran.
“Is this the way it is wid yes? an' is this Protestant
justice? Sure, it's small justice ye can do an a corrups!
And do you raly many to kill us, thin, ar what?”

Mrs. Calloran was ready to contend with her tongue,
as in the encounter of two days before; but a look from
Mr. Urston,—who acted and spoke with a self-possession
and dignity that contrasted strongly with his surroundings,—put
her to silence.

“He could not understand this most extraordinary proceeding,”
he said, “and knew no more of `abducting or
carrying away' Mr. Barbury's daughter, than the father
did; but would make no resistance to a legal warrant.”

For Mr. Barbury's sake, he begged that his premises
might be thoroughly searched. The constable complied;
but the search found nothing.

Mrs. Calloran's submission in Mr. Urston's presence,
could not prevent her crying out at this point,—

“Will ye sind for the praste, thin? Sind for the
praste! There's Father Ignashis is at Misther O'Rourke's
beyant; they'll niver deny us the sacramints from our
own clargy! Will ye sind for the praste?”

“May be we'll have to send for them bimebye,” said
Gilpin aside. He then comforted Mrs. Calloran with an
assurance, “that she should hang like a Christen, if she
was found guilty.”

The preparations for going were soon made; the constable
assuring his prisoners that, at any rate, they could
come home a bit after the examination, even if the magistrate
should commit them. So they set forth for the worshipful
magistrate's presence.

One after another of Gilpin's former escort made his
appearance by the way. Jesse Hill, also, and Isaac
Maffen reappeared.

Mr. Urston complimented the constable upon his generalship;
but assured him that he didn't want so much
help.

“It's good to have enough of a good thing,” said the
constable, glancing with his one eye over his troops.
“William, you take command o' these limbs o' the law,
will ye? Keep about two or three cables' length astern,
if ye know how much that is; or as much more as ye
like.”

So Billy Bow took charge of the posse, except Jesse
and Isaac (who, with the constable, made one for each
prisoner). These attached themselves to the immediate
escort, and were not meddled with. Jesse and Isaac
were two important witnesses.

Near the bush, from behind which Jesse had seen his
apparition come forth, the new Priest was lingering to
meet the approaching party. Jesse, at sight of him,
bristled, a good deal like a sturdy mastiff, and Isaac felt
contagious animosity. Mrs. Calloran expressed herself by
tongue.

“Don't look at us, yer riverence, Father Ignatius,” she
said, though he could not hear her, and could only have
seen the zealous and eager courtesy that she dropped,
afar off; “don't look at the way they treat us for being
Catholics.”

“You may as well keep a stopper on your tongue,
while you're my prisoner,” said Gilpin, peremptorily.
“I've heard a good name of this gentleman; and I don't
want to bring un into trouble for meddling with an officer
in the execution of his warrant.”

Father Debree stood quite unmoved at the evidently
hostile expression of the escort; or, at least, if not unmoved,
his face did not lose any thing of its very handsome
openness and dignity. His manner, however, was
agitated.

He saluted the prisoners and constable, and even Jesse

and Isaac, who looked gruff and implacable, exceedingly,
and scarcely returned the salutation. The constable,
though not cordial or over-courteous, kept himself from
showing any active dislike. The Priest addressed him in
a very prepossessing voice,—

“I think you're the constable,—Mr. Gilpin,—are you
not?”

“I'm constable, sir, for want of a better,” said Skipper
Charlie; “and blacksmith, too.”

“May I have a moment's conversation with you?”

“Not about my prisoners; I'm going with 'em to the
magistrate's. You can go along, sir, if you please,” said
Gilpin, but falling, at the same time, in the rear.

“You mistake me,” said the Priest; “I've no wish to
interfere between you and your prisoners. If I could
be of any service, in a proper and lawful way, to any
one whose friend I ought to be, I'm sure you wouldn't
blame it; but I want to ask if you have found any
thing to throw a light on Skipper George's daughter's
fate?”

“I hope we shall find out about it,” said the constable,
ambiguously.

“Are these prisoners arrested on suspicion of being
connected with it?”

“It'll appear on their examination, sir,” answered
Gilpin.

“I don't wish to ask any improper question; but I
know the father, and I know her, and I know them, and
feel very much interested;—I ask as a friend.”

Gilpin's one sharp eye had been fixed on the speaker's
face.

“I don't think it was Protestants have made way with
her,” said he.

“You don't suppose she's been murdered!” exclaimed
the Priest.

“I can't say what's been done to her, sir,” said Gilpin,
more softened; “but it looks black.”

“But what motive could these people have?” asked
Father Debree, much agitated.

“There might be motives,” said Gilpin; “but I can't
say about that. There's reasons for having them up.”

“I'm very sorry to hear it,” said the Priest; “but if it
was the nearest friend I had on earth, though I would
do any thing to have justice, yet, if he were guilty, I
wouldn't move an eyelid, if it would save him from punishment.—But
I can't think that any such crime has
been committed; and I cannot believe that, if it had, Mr.
Urston here could be guilty.”

“I hope not, sir,” said the constable.

“My being a Roman Catholic Priest prevents your
trusting me; but do you think that I cannot have any
regard for right, or any feeling for that father? and for
any father who had lost his child? That's a little too
severe.”

Gilpin, who was an honest, kind-hearted man himself,
was evidently moved by this appeal. The Priest ended
by saying,—

“Skipper George shall not want any effort of mine,
with the neighbors, (if I can do any thing,) to recover his
daughter.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, sir,” said Gilpin; “a
man isn't a man that hasn't got a man's feelings.—I can't
say about Mr. Urston; but the suspicion lay all round his
house; and he's not the only one that lives in it.”

As they drew near to the road, Father Debree wished
his companion “good morning;” and let him pass on.