University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
FATHER DEBREE AT BAY-HARBOR.

BAY-HARBOR is a town of some importance in
Conception Bay; and quite a place of trade and
business. It is also the chief town of a district,
as respects the Roman Catholic Church; and the chief
clergyman of that denomination officiating in Bay-Harbor
is superior in rank and title to the others in that district.

At this time the Romish clergy there were the Very
Reverend Father O'Toole, the Reverend Father Dunne,
(absent for some months,) and the Father Nicholas, whom
the reader has already met.

The elder priest had been for a good many years at
Bay-Harbor, and was generally liked and thought of, as
easy-going, good-natured men are apt to be. He held
the reins of discipline gently; had been, until quite lately,
a frequent visitor in Protestant families, and had made a
present of his horse to the Protestant clergyman.

The nature of Father Nicholas's position there, or connection
with the mission, was not very evident. By short
and frequent steps he had made his way into the very
midst of every thing; had got Father O'Toole's right
hand, as it were, in his; while the latter had, for the last
few months, (since the withdrawal of the priest who had
been associated with himself for years, and who was expected

again,) submitted so quietly to the absorption of
much of his own work and authority, that it might have
been thought to be an arrangement that he liked. Many
people thought the new comer to have been sent out
specially by the Holy Father himself, and it was reported
that he kept a record of every thing done and said in the
important town of Bay-Harbor, (people think their own
town a place of great consequence in the world;) and
that the Court of Rome was kept regularly informed of
every thing that transpired, and a good deal more. It
was agreed that his father had been once a merchant in
Jamaica; afterwards in Cadiz; and that Father Nicholas
had been brought up in Spain.

Some Protestants said of him that it was not likely
that a man of his talents would be kept in the sort of
obscurity that even Bay-Harbor must be considered as
imposing, unless for good reason; and that it was probably
a kind of banishment, inflicted or allowed by his
superiors; but other Protestants maintained, in opposition,
that Father Nicholas was intrusted with every
priestly function and authority, and that it was a vulgar
prejudice only that attributed to the Church of Rome the
tolerance of unworthy men in its ministry. Many Protestants
accordingly showed particular attention to this
priest.

His own character gave no more encouragement to one
supposition than to another; but might be reconciled to
any. Elegant, even to extreme, at times, in his intercourse
with ladies or men of intelligence, he was, sometimes,
negligent and even abrupt or rude to either sex.
Highly educated and studious, as he was thought to be,
he was not free from a pedantry, (or affectation of
pedantry,) in conversation. There was another habitual

antithesis about him; he allowed himself often in a remark,
whose freedom betrayed his familiarity with the ways
and wisdom of the world, or whose sarcasm, bitterness, or
even venom showed the cheap estimate at which he held
men; while, on the other hand, he would utter, habitually,
lofty principles of virtue, and warm and moving
arguments for truth, and quoted (in their own language,)
the offices of the Church and the authorized Scriptures,
very frequently and with great solemnity.

It was curious to see the influence of his new associate
upon the plain old Father Terence. Nominally and
ostensibly at the head of the clergy of the district, and
enjoying the title of Very Reverend, he put the other
forward, very often, or allowed him to put himself forward,
both in doing and counselling, in a way which
proved his own indolence, or the intellectual or other
superiority of the younger man.

In one respect the influence of the younger upon the
elder was amusingly exhibited; the worthy Father
Terence, having resumed his studies, and making a point
of quoting Latin and also of discoursing ethics and
logic when the presence of Father Nicholas tempted him.
He also prevented the recognition of his own precedence
to fall into desuetude, by asserting or inferring it, not
seldom.

Father Nicholas, for his part, proclaimed his own subordination.

So matters stood in Bay-Harbor, at the time of our
story, and to the house in which the two priests lived, not
far from the chapel, we are now to bring our reader.

It must have been about seven o'clock, on the Tuesday
morning, that Father Debree was leading the horse from

which he had just dismounted, into the premises of the
Roman Catholic mission at Bay-Harbor.

“Ah! thin, it's the early bird catches the fox,” cried
a good-natured voice from above. “Can ye tie him
some place, a bit? an' I'll be with ye, directly.”

While the utterer of the proverb was coming, or preparing
to come, the dismounted horseman looked about
for the “some place” at which to hitch his horse, a thing
more easily sought than found. Posts there were none;
trees there were none; and at length the horse was fastened
to the paling near the road.

“Y'are younger than meself,” said the voice, which
had before addressed him, and which now came through
the door, “and ye haven't that weight of cares and labors;
but I'm glad to see ye,” it added heartily, as Father Debree
came up into the door and received a very hospitable
shake of the hand.

“I beg pardon for being so unseasonable, Father
Terence,” said the visitor. “You didn't expect me so
early?”

“Ah, brother, if ye do ever be placed in a conspikyis
and responsible post, ye'll know that it's what
belongs to us. I am continyally, continyally,— but
come in!”

As he talked thus, Father Terence had gone, with dignity,
solid and substantial, before his guest into the parlor.
The dignitary's most “conspikyis” garment was not such
as gentlemen of any occupation or profession are accustomed
to appear in. It was not white, and yet it was not
black or colored; it did not fit him very handsomely; was
somewhat short in the legs, with a string or two dangling
from the lower ends, and, indeed, had the appearance of
something other than a pair of trowsers.

His stockings were not in“conspikyis”; being one of
gray and one of black-mixed, very indulgently pulled on
and crowded into two slippers, (not a pair,) of which one
had the appearance of being a shoe turned down at heel,
and the other was of quite an elegant velvet, though of a
shape somewhat wider than is elegant in a human foot.
He had a long black coat opening downward from a
single button fastened at the neck; and on his head a
close fitting cotton nightcap coming down cosily about two
good thick cheeks and tied below his chin.

The face for all this body was plain, but kindly-looking;
the eyes being narrow, the nose longish and thick,
and the mouth large; the upper lip appearing to be made
of a single piece, and the lower one looking as if it were
both strong and active.

The chin in which the face was finished, was a thick,
round one, which underneath had a great swelling, like a
capacious receptacle in which for years had been accumulating
the drippings of a well-served mouth. His
forehead—now partly covered by the nightcap,—if not
remarkably high, had an open, honest breadth.

“Take a chair! Take a chair, then,” said the host,
seating himself.

“Now, brother,” said the nightcapped head, bowing
with dignity, “I think we've made a beginning.”

“I've hurried you too much, Father O'Toole,” said the
younger. “I can wait here, very well, until you're ready
to come down.”

“Amn't I down, thin,” asked Father Terence, conclusively.
“Do ye mind the psalm where it says `Praevenerunt
oculi mei, diluculo, ut meditarer?'”

“Excuse me, Reverend Father Terence,” said a third
voice, “you never lay the harness off—”

“Ah! Father Nicholas!” said the elder, expostulating,
but glancing complacently at Father Debree—

“But,” continued the new-comer, “your impatience
to obey the call of duty has prevented your taking time
to make your toilet. Allow me to take your place, as
far as I can, in entertaining my old neighbor and friend,
while you allow yourself a little of that time which
you may reasonably bestow even upon so insignificant
an object as dress.”

Father Terence had evidently not bestowed a thought
upon so insignificant a thing; and glancing downwards, at
the “harness which he had not laid off,” hastily gathered
the skirts of his black garments over his knees, and getting
up, made his retreat with a convenient, if somewhat
irrelevant, clearing of his throat, and a bow in which
dignity bore up bravely against discomposure.

Father Nicholas was not liable to censure on the score
of having neglected his dress; for nothing could impress
one with a sense of thoroughness, more perfectly than his
whole personal appearance; black,—somewhat glossy,—
from his throat down to the floor; contrasted about the
middle by his two white hands, (of which one glistened
with a signet-ring,) and relieved above by the pale, yellowish
face, with its high forehead, and dark, shining eye,
and the emphatic, determined mouth. Above the face,
again, it was glossy, wavy, black hair, cut short, though
no tonsure was apparent.

As Father Debree made no motion, and gave no sign
of noticing his presence, he addressed him, in a courtly
way, without committing himself to too great warmth of
manner.

“I'm sorry to have seen so little of you.—I'm so busy
that I can't always get to mass even.”

So saying, he held out a friendly hand, which the other
took without any show of cordiality. Father Nicholas's
eyes searched the face of his companion, during this interchange
of salutations.

“You've made an entrance at Peterport?” he asked,
renewing the conversation.

The other answered simply, “Yes.”

Father Nicholas did not tire.

“What is the case, now, about that girl?” he asked,
making an effort to throw ease and kindliness into the
conversation.

“How do you mean?” said Father Debree, as distantly
as before.

“Do they think her drowned? or lost in the woods?
or carried off.”

“It begins to be pretty generally believed that she has
been carried off?”

“Are any particular parties suspected, do you know?”
continued Father Nicholas, in his persevering catechism.

“Yes; I'm sorry to say that some of Mr. Urston's
family and other Catholics are suspected.”

There was more fire in Father Nicholas's eye than
force in his voice; and there was, always, a very decided
assertion of himself in his manner, however quiet it
might be.

“Do you mean you're sorry that they should suspect
Catholics? or that they should suspect them of getting
hold of a Protestant's daughter? The first is not very
new, and the last is no great crime, I believe.”

“Stealing a man's daughter!” said Father Debree.

“Suppose you say `saving a soul?' `de igne rapientes
odientes et maculatam tunicam?' There seems to be

divine warrant for it,” answered Father Nicholas, with
very quiet self-possession.

“You wouldn't apply that to this Mr. Barbury's
daughter?”

“I don't know that her being Mr. Barbury's daughter
ought to exclude her from our interest,” said Father
Nicholas, smiling.

“I feel very little inclination to jest,” said the other.
“Here is a father mourning the loss of his daughter, a
girl of most uncommon character and promise, and he
himself an object of universal respect; one whom no one
can know without respecting.”

“You seem to forget about the mother, whose case is a
little peculiar,” answered Father Nicholas; “but suppose
I speak for another mother, and say that she has been
mourning over her lost children, and yearning for
them?”

“But this girl was a Protestant, heart and soul”—

“And therefore mustn't be made a Catholic, heart and
soul? I don't see the application,” returned Father
Nicholas. “You're new to this neighborhood; but I
gave you some information, I think. This girl's mother,
`In good old Catholic times, when our Lord the Pope
was King,' would have been reduced to a heap of ashes,
by way of penance involuntary. Moreover,—”

“I don't quite see your application,” said Father Debree,
in his turn;—“I remember what you said of the
family, before.”

“— Moreover,” continued the other, “this girl has
been baptized into the Catholic Church.—Yes, sir,” he
added, noticing a start of surprise in his hearer; “and,
moreover, this girl was stealing a sacrifice from the altar;
—the heart of young Urston; nay, I believe she has

stolen it, (and done me a mischief, in certain quarters, by
that very thing, by the way;) and moreover, lastly,—
what you may think more to the purpose,—I believe they
found no evidence, whatever, against the Urstons in the
examination, yesterday morning.”

At this point of the conversation, solid steps were
heard, bringing Father Terence back. “`Bonum est
viro, cum portaverit jugum ab adolescentia sua,'” he was
saying.

“What a treasure to have a mind so stored with sacred
precepts!” exclaimed Father Nicholas; “dulciora super
mel et favum.” Then saying to his companion, “Excuse
my want of hospitality; I must see to your horse;” he
hurried out of the room by a different door from that
which Father O'Toole was approaching.

The priest from Peterport hurried in the same direction,
as if to prevent him; so that when the worthy
elder reëntered the room, he found it forsaken, and only
heard retreating steps.

“The present company seems to be mostly absent,”
said he.

Father Debree soon came back and apologized.

“Ah!” said Father O'Toole, “I know meself it's
necessary looking to thim now and again; sure, hadn't I
one meself then for manny years, named Pishgrew,[1] from
some French General, or other; (the boys called um
`Pitchgrove,' from a trick he had of getting tar on um,
however it was he got it,) and when he wasn't looked to,
quare things he did. He gnawed his own tail and mane
off, many's the time, when my eye was off him; the
children all said the one thing of him; and sure, they'd

the best chance to know, having nothing else to do, mostly,
but to be watchin him at his pasture.”

Mr. Debree could not help smiling at this simple
notion of the necessity of looking after a valuable horse
who had come some miles at a good rate, lest he should
eat off his own tail and mane.

“Ye'll stay the day, then, like a man of good sense,
won't ye,” asked Father O'Toole.—“It's not that much
time I give upon the externals;—`turbamur—' what's
this it is?—`erga—plurima;' `one thing 's necessary;'
but I'm more conforming and shutable, now.”

Indeed he was; dressed in a long, black cassock of
camlet, or something like it; black stock and black stockings,
and shoes with small silver, (at least shining)
buckles on them; and irongray locks behind; respectable,
if not venerable, he looked like one of the Irish Roman
priests of the old time, who had been twenty or thirty
years in the island.

“We'll be having breakfast shortly,” said the host;
“it's not good talking too much with only air in your
belly; and after breakfast we'll hear how ye're getting on”

The old gentleman went to see after breakfast, or some
other matter, and Mr. Debree was left to himself.

Nothing appeared in the room to occupy the attention
of the visitor but two remains of books, one painting on
the wall, and a box upon the mantel-shelf. The furniture
was scanty, not quite clean, and many of the pieces
occupied with things of many kinds. Of the books upon
the table, one was a breviary without covers, and almost
without contents; for a great deal of what had formerly
been paper was now nothing. Of what remained in type
and tissue, a greasy flaccidness had taken hold. The other
was an odd volume of Mr. Alban Butler's Lives of Saints,

of which it would be hard to say why it had lost one
cover; for the inside showed no such marks of use and
wear as would account for it. Some places had been fingered,
and here a scrap of a tobacco wrapping-paper,
and there some grains of snuff, showed that, by accident
or of set purpose, its bulk of pages had been sometimes
broken.

The hanging picture was a specimen of painting not altogether
such as monkish or other hands devout have sometimes
produced, without concurrence of the head or heart,
but one into which had gone something of spirit from the
worker. It showed a comfortable-looking person, dressed
as a Dominican, and with a halo indicating saintship around
his head, within the ring of which, and covering his shaven
crown, there was a fair and fruitful grape-vine, with broad
leaves and clustering, purple grapes, a bunch of which the
sainted man was squeezing into a golden helmet, from
which, already overrunning, a stream was flowing down
and off into the distance. Over the top was a legend
from Is. xxii., “Calix meus inebrians, quam præclarus!”
Some explanation of the circumstances was probably contained
in a Latin inscription underneath, which, being in
some parts quite imperfect, had been freshened and retouched,
as it appeared, with ink.

Father Debree cast rather a sad look at the “saint,” and
turned in a listless way to the outside of the last object

of attraction—the snuff-box on the mantel-shelf—when
he was called to breakfast by Father Terence.

“It's not my own, that,” said Father O'Toole, “'twas
left upon me by the man I got the Blessed Virgin of, that
hangs at the left of the altar, beyond. Himself hung it,
and I never stirred it.—He takes his meals by himself,
mostly,” continued Father O'Toole, by way of explaining
his assistant's absence. “The conversation was much
more cordial without him.”

As may be supposed, no duty of hospitality was omitted
by the kindly Irishman, and a good example was set
in his own person of practice in eating.

There were several subjects on which the two priests
were to confer, or did confer; but Father Debree was
still occupied with the loss of Skipper George's daughter,
and the suspicions attaching to the Urstons and to the
nuns from Bay-Harbor. The old priest took a kindly
interest.

“Indade, it's a sad thing for a father to lose his child!”
said he.

“But he's a Protestant,” said Father Debree.

“And hasn't a Protestant feelings? Ay, and some o'
them got the best o' feelings. I'm sure yerself's no call
to say against it.—It's in religion they make the great
mistake.”

“I'm not inclined to deny it, Father Terence, and this
is a noble man, this Skipper George; but”—

“And who's Skipper George, then? Is he the father?
Oh! sure there's good Protestants; and it's hard to lose
a child that way, and not to know is she dead or living, or
torn to pieces, or what!”

“Not every one has such good feeling, when the father's
a Protestant.”

“But the Urstons are not that way, at all; and James
was a good boy!” answered the old priest.

“It's a mystery, and a deplorable one! I couldn't
think they've taken her; but she was last seen near their
house, probably; and some things belonging to her have
been found at the house and near it; there's no doubt of
that;”—

—“And haven't ye the direction of them?” asked
Father Terence.

“Mrs. Calloran confesses to Father Crampton. I
never see James. She tells me that he's leaving the
Church.”

“No! no!” said the old priest, with great feeling;
then shook his head and added, “I hadn't the charge of
him, this while back.—I mind hearing this girl was leading
him away, but I can't think it of him.”

“I don't believe she has done it, Father Terence, from
all that I can hear. He may have fallen in love with
her.”

“And why would she let him, and him going to be a
priest?”

“There were some nuns, so it seems, at Mr. Urston's
house that evening,” said Father Debree, returning to the
former subject; “and it's said that they were seen carrying
some one away.”

“It's little I know about the holy women,” Father Terence
answered, “more than if they were the Eleven
Thousand Virgins itself; but what would they do the
like for? And would any one belonging to this, whatever
way it was with the girl, without me knowing it?—but
will ye see to the boy James? And couldn't ye bring
him to speak with me?”

Father Terence forgot and neglected his own breakfast,

though he did not forget his hospitality. He seemed
almost impatient to have his commission undertaken immediately.

His guest, too, appeared to have little appetite; but he
lingered after they left the table, and presently said:—

“There was another subject, Father Terence”—

“Come and see me again, do! and we'll talk of every
thing; and don't forget the lad. I'd not let you go at all,
only for that.”

The young priest accordingly took his leave.