University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MAGISTRATE DEALS WITH OTHER SUSPICIOUS
PERSONS.

THE world was going on in Peterport also. Public
suspicion had, of course, repeatedly touched
Father Debree, but had never been able to
fasten on him. One or two overwise bodies undoubtedly
thought him the more dangerous, because (as they said)
“he was so deep, and made people think he was harmless;”
but almost every one (with Skipper George) absolutely
discharged him, before the third day. To have
found out what was his painful and mysterious connection
with Mrs. Barrè, would have been a great deal for the
public.—It did not yet appear.

He was seldom seen in the harbor, and was soon little
spoken of; the fever too, in Marchants' Cove, which
killed no one, ceased to occupy men's tongues, or the
tongues of their wives. Mrs. Barrè's sorrow and her
mystery were left to silence, while steadily the general
thought busied itself with following the lost maiden.

James Urston, it was said, had been with the priests
at Bay-Harbor; but it was also said, that he was threatened
with excommunication, or some great penalty, and
public opinion naturally sympathized with the bereaved
lover and the disaffected Roman Catholic, (if he was disaffected;)—the

public eye still looked darkly at Mrs. Calloran,
and beyond.

Mrs. Calloran herself had said,—very truly,—that
“there were other old women in Peterport,” and the hands
of justice, again feeling about, grasped Granny Palasher
and held her to an examination. They were to have
laid hold on Mr. Bangs, (this time,) and Ladford; but
these had both slipped between, like other little men of
old time, between those of another giant. Of Ladford's
movements nothing was reported; but of the American,
William Frank had this to say, That he had sent some
important communication to the vice-consul of his country,
at St. John's, and had left the harbor for parts unknown.

The magistrate made little out of the Granny, except
that her name was properly Ann Pilchard, and that the
public suffrage was with her when she asserted that she
“had an occupation and knowed it 'most so good as some
other folks did theirs, mubbe.” Having in the course of
a day elicited so much, he adjourned his court.

Awaking from the sleep which had settled down upon
a mind and body, faded with the long day's and night's
work, which went before and followed the last adjournment
of his “court,” and yet another full day's painful
deliberation, he was informed by his servant, that there
was a paper on the front-door, and that “he” (the
paper) “looked mostly like a print, seemunly.” The
color rose in Mr. Naughton's cheeks, and his fingers
trembled as he proceeded to examine this new decoration
of his house. He evidently suspected it.

He walked leisurely and stopped at more than one
thing in the way, and when he got out of doors, looked
up at the sky and down at some vegetation on which he

had expended a great deal of manure, before approaching
the object which had stimulated the curiosity of his maid.
When he did at length deliberately turn to view it, he
saw a huge broadside of wrapping-paper, bearing the
words (in charcoal,)

He certainly looked fateful, (as the poster unintentionally
called him,) when he had read this thing.

“Ha!” said he, “parties may burn their fingers, if
they don't look out;” and he conspicuously,—that all the
neighborhood or the world might see it,—tore the paper
first into long strips and then into little bits, which he
gave by instalments to the winds. He then walked deliberately
up and down in front of his house, turning his
face, (considerably reddened by the activity of his mind,)
frequently to the road, with an “Hm!” as if to show the
world that there he was, unmoved, and ready to be the
mark of any animadversion.

So for some time he aired himself, before going in to
breakfast.

That the impersonation of Justice in Peterport was not
weary of its efforts, was soon made manifest. Gilpin,
the constable, hinted the propriety of having Mrs. Calloran
up again, and giving her a “hauling-over.”

This proposition the magistrate disposed of summarily,
by a legal aphorism: “A person can't be tried twice for
the same offence, Mr. Gilpin, according to English law;”
and he forestalled an argument over which the constable's
eye was twinkling, and which he was just making up his
mouth to utter, by putting into that officer's hand a warrant,
and saying authoritatively,—

“You'll see that Mrs. Frank is brought before me
with all diligence.”

The constable's eye twinkled as much as ever; and,
putting the writ in his pocket, before he went forth upon
his errand, he made a new suggestion:—

“She'll never be able to stand it, sir, will she, poor old
thing? she's had a good deal o' worriment over this already,
they say.”

“Justice is absolute, Mr. Gilpin; if you find her health
impaired, you will report it.”

So the constable went about his business.

Granny Frank was at the time upon a few days' visit
to her grand-daughter, Jesse Barbury Hills's wife, and
thither the constable proceeded, to subpœna her, or rather
fetch her with him to the magistrate.

There was a little commotion in the house as Gilpin
came to it, which prevented his tap at the door from
being heard, and he walked in, accordingly, unbidden.

A child or two were playing in the sitting-room; but
all the older members of the family had drawn together
in a bedroom at the side. The constable came silently
across, and was not noticed; for Jesse and his wife, and
Isaac Maffen were busy about a bed, in which the shrivelled
and exhausted old woman lay, heaving long, slow
sighs for breath.

“Jes-se,—child—,” she was saying, with longer than
her usual intervals between the syllables, and more feebly
than usual,—“un-der—my—rump!—heave—I—up,—I
—wants—to—go—high”—

Jesse Hill, as dutifully as a child, and as tenderly as
might be, did her bidding; and raised the slight body up.

“She's gone!” said Gilpin, as he scanned her face
“that's her last word in this life, you may depend!”

“Do 'ee think so?” asked Jesse; “why, she's sca'ce
got through wi' talkun!”

“Next time she speaks it won't be here,” said the constable
gravely.

“God rest her, then!” said her grandson-in-law; “I'm
glad we was all w'itun upon her when she goed, anyhow.”

“It's good one trouble for nothing was saved her!”
said the constable.

So they laid her down again, decently, upon the bed,
and sent for the different members of the family, while
the constable lingered, without mentioning the errand
upon which he had come.

“What have you got here, Jesse?” said he, as his eye
caught sight of a parcel standing on the mantle-shelf.

“Mr. Banks give it to I to bring up, for un, from B'y-Harbor.”

“Why, it's for the Parson, man; why didn't you deliver
it?”

“He on'y asked I to bring it,” said the trusty depositary;
“an' so I kept it, tull 'e'd call, 'isself. I never
knowed what it was.”

“Well, bad readin' 'll never spoil you, Jesse. How
long was the old lady sick?”

“She never was sick; not that we knowed of; but just
visitun, an' layun on the bed, as comfortable as could be,
tull just a few minutes sunce;—as it might be, two-three
minutes afore you comed in.”

“Well, she's had enough of it, if she was ready. She
might have had too much, if she'd staid longer. Is Naath
home?”

“No; we'll wait the funeral tull Monday, I suppose, to
give un a chance to come back.”

The constable took his leave, and went to make his
return. Jesse went too.

Both the men started back, and made a reverential
salutation, as they met Mrs. Barrè, on coming into the
road. Her look was more troubled than usual.

“It's easier partin' a gran'mother than it is a husband
or a child,” said the constable, shortly after.

“All so, Mr. Gulpin,” said Jesse, “that's a clear case;
you've got to part they. I hard Parson Kingman's wife
say, `death is an alteration, surely, an' can' be helped.'”

There were some loiterers about the magistrate's premises;—people
that can always spare time for public affairs;
and whom, now, the mission of the constable had stimulated
to strong expectancy. The magistrate was immersed
in mental and manual occupation: reading and
writing.

“There was some one to summons her before I, sir,”
said Gilpin.

“How do you mean?” asked the magistrate, nervously;
for though he got along very well with plenty of sea-room,
the prospect of a collision or conflict of jurisdictions
was a new thing to him.

“She's dead,” said the constable.

“Dead! Why, that can't be,” exclaimed Mr. Naughton,
“she was alive yesterday.”

“And so she was the minute she died, sir; but she
won't be again, in one while, unless the Day of Judgment
comes.”

The comparison, so strongly drawn by the Almighty
between his might and the stipendiary's “absolute justice,”
affected Mr. Naughton considerably.

He went to the window, (the public being outside,) and
through it spoke,—

“I am given to understand,” said he, “that Mrs. Abigail
Frank, commonly called Old Granny Frank, who
had been summoned as a witness, is dead. I shall,
therefore, prorogue this court, as is customary, until after
the funeral. Mr. Gilpin, this warrant is dismissed;” and
he solemnly bowed away the constable and few of the
more adventurous neighbors who had got a place within.

“Good!” said Gilpin, as soon as they were in the
king's highway; “I hope the next thing, he'll hear the
Emperor of Egypt's dead, and adjourn for a twelve-month.”

The people dispersed, (to better occupations, perhaps,)
and Granny Palasher having certified herself of the fact,
from Jesse, commented upon it as many another old
woman has commented upon a like case:—

“Poor thing! she alw'ys seemed to ail o' somethun,
these few years back; but I do wonder what 'ave atookt
she, at last!”

From the magistrate's, Gilpin made his way to the
Minister's.

“The `Spring-Bird' has sailed, sir,” said he; “o' Tuesday
night, Jesse says; so Cap'n Nolesworth's off.”

“Is he?” said Mr. Wellon. “I'm sorry he couldn't
have staid to help us clear this up!”

The “little mite of a bundle,” as the sender had designated
it, proved, when developed, to be a quaint-looking
letter on a foolscap sheet, addressed to “Mister Wellon,
the English episcopalian minister at Peterport, to the
kindness of Mister Barbury, with Dispatch.”

The Minister, having read it with varying expressions
in his face of surprise, amusement, and interest, handed
it to the constable, saying,—

“You seem to be concerned in this.”

The latter took it, with a look of astonishment, and
having prefaced his work by the remark, “Well, that's a
queer-looking concern, any way,” proceeded to read aloud,
in a subdued voice, and here and there with difficulty, as
follows:—

“Well!” exclaimed Gilpin, looking up, with his one
eye twinkling, when he had finished the reading, “if that
isn't a letter and a half!”

“These Americans have strange ways,” said Mr.
Wellon; “but do you notice any thing particularly in
his letter?”

“About the sick girl? and the black hair? and about
eighteen years old?” asked Gilpin, putting these things
together with a directness that would not have been unworthy
of a policeman of abundant practice; “yes, sir;
and `St. Lucy!' How should that happen? Or do you
think Mr. Bangs put that in?”

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Wellon; “that's just what they would
do, very likely, if they were trying to make a convert;
they'd hang up a portrait of her patron-saint, as they call
it. All this confirms our suspicion. Thank God it comes
just in time. I never thought of the American making
himself so useful.”

“Dropping his hat!” said the constable. “If that
isn't one way of gitting into a place! That is a joke!
`Holy Roman Religion!' There's a convert for 'em!
But that sick girl—”

“That's a pity!” said the Minister, thoughtfully,—the
constable eyeing him curiously the while. “If we could
use his evidence—”

“I take it, sir, we can use it by the time we want it.”

“Ay; but in the mean time this poor man will get entangled,
perhaps, beyond help.”

The constable still looked curiously and inquiringly.

“The maid, sir? Lucy Barbury?” suggested he, by
way of amendment to the word “man,” in the Minister's
sentence.

“No; I was thinking of this American,—Mr. Bangs.”

“But it won't do him any harm, sir; will it?” asked
Gilpin, still puzzled.

The Minister answered:—

“To be sure, he wasn't a churchman before; but I
should be very sorry, nevertheless, to see him become a
papist. If he should see this plot, it might cure him.”

“He sees it fast enough, sir, or I'm much mistaken,”
said the constable.

“But,” answered Mr. Wellon, “I can't think he understands
the whole thing; and if he could be rescued—”

“From Father O'Toole, sir? The Yankee 'll take care
of himself, I'll go bail. We needn't trouble ourselves

about saving him, sir, any more than a fish from drowning.
If he isn't up to any of 'em, he's no Yankee. It's
my opinion, they'll find it slow work converting him.”

The Minister smiled, good-humoredly, as his solicitude
for Mr. Bangs was blown away. “It's strange that he
should get in there,” said he.

“They've been too cunning, and not cunning enough,”
answered the constable. “They thought he'd tell every
body he'd been all over the place, and people would think
it must be all right, if they weren't afraid to let un in.
Father Nicholas, there, thought he could keep un safe
enough; but he didn't think about his hat!”—

So, this evening, the old suspicion, setting towards Bay-Harbor,
and the nuns and priests there, possessed the
Minister and his council more strongly than it had done
since Lucy Barbury was lost.