University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
MRS. BARRE'S SAD WALK.

THE cool wind and the sea-smell came together
up the road, and the waves darkened the water;
it was just the day for walking, and Mrs. Barrè
was out.—Peterport harbor-road is pretty and picturesque,
as are all these out-harbor roads, (wanting only
trees;) and the turns, and ups and downs, made very convenient
stages for the little girl's excursions in front of her
mother. Up hill and down hill, this way and that, along
by Marchants' Cove and Frank's Cove, and along by the
colony of Sinderses, and through the fence across the
meadows, up the hill and through the gorge to Mad Cove,
the mother and her little one went on, pausing at the top
of the steep descent down to this last, which is at the end
of the tongue of land on which stands Peterport, with all
its several coves.

This place, with its wall of rock to the north and west,
and slope of grass-covered ledge to the east, like a valley
in a mountain district, has its goats climbing and capering
on the cliffs, like such valleys in the old world.

As Mrs. Barrè thus paused for a moment, before going
down, while the little girl sate down on the rock beside her,
we may fancy what she felt. Whatever Father Dèbree
may have been to her, or she to him,—whatever memories

they had in common, whether of sweet childhood in one
dear home, or of later neighborhood and knowledge of
each other, and whether there were, or not, such relationship
between them as made it sure that their two lives,
hereafter, must affect each other,—here, in this little cove,
among strange people, (or people nearly strange,) had
passed two scenes so full of feeling to her and to him, and
so full of pain, as seldom come in the life of any. It was
but a few days since, and now she stood looking down upon
the spot in which, so lately, she had stood with a straining
heart and stretching brain.

There was a door at the back of the Widow Freney's
house, and, while they sat at the road-side, it opened, and
a little girl appeared, as if coming out. As soon as she saw
the well-known visitors, she ran back, as children do, but
shutting the door behind her, with a sense of carefulness or
propriety a little unusual among the people. Little Mary
watched, for some time, to see it open again, and then said
she thought there was no one in the house, except the
child; and her mamma, acting upon the same supposition,
passed by the place and went to the settlement below.

There was old Joe Royce's wife, a good, simple Christian
body, who was very poor, because she had no children,
and her “skipper” was stiff in the joints, and incapable
of much exertion, or exertion to much purpose.
“Joe did go out some very scattered times, and fish for a
spurt, but he wasn' any great shakes, and what could us
expect of he?” was the professional estimate of poor
Royce's capability, though the neighbors did their best,
good-naturedly, in helping the poor fellow to get himself
out, and to do for himself when he was out, and did their
best in making allowances for him. The family were
pensioners, therefore; but this day, the old couple were

graver than their wont; there was an evident restraint
upon them.

At the next house, too, it was the same. As she passed
by the flake, on which were many of the wives at work,
one old woman—a hard-and-broad-featured, small-eyed
woman, in a black dress, very square on the shoulders
and short-waisted—answered her salutation shortly, without
leaving or looking up from her occupation. The
woman, evidently, was not in a kindly humor. A cloud
seemed to have darkened the whole neighborhood.

As Mrs. Barrè looked among the other workers, at
least one pleasant face put itself forward, belonging to
Jesse Barbury's wife. She came to the flake's edge, and
saluted the lady very prettily and cordially, although it
seemed almost as if she intended taking off the effect of
her neighbors' unkind manner.

Mrs. Barrè drew her aside, and asked her directly
what the matter was.

“She didn't rightly know,” she said, “to say know,—
what was the matter. There was somethun amongst them,
she believed.”

“Against me?” inquired the lady, in astonishment.
“There can't be any thing against me!”

“There's many's the folks ben't gezac'ly what they hold
out to be,” said the small-eyed, great woman on the flake,
in a steady stream of voice, that made its way to where
they stood. “'Tisn' alwaays them that should be 'xamples,
that bes 'xamples. Thes 'am' quality, sometimes, wasn'
what they'd ought.”

The good-natured young wife made an effort to occupy
the lady's attention, telling her that her own “skipper had
gone acrass the b'y; and wouldn' the lady, mubbe, be
plased to walk and take a look at the babby that seemed

oneasy, like, as if he wasn' well, altogether? He took
starts into hisself, seeminly, by spurts. He was just in at
John Yarl's house.”

Mrs. Barrè accepted the invitation, and went; and,
having seen and praised the baby, again asked for the
explanation.

“I believe, ma'am, 'ee'd oose to be a Roman,—so I've
ahard said, however,—afore 'ee comed to think better of
it, most likely,” said Prudence, “an' it was somethun was
about 'ee lavun it.” The mother took her baby and
nursed it.

“About my leaving it!” said Mrs. Barrè, “how can
they think the worse of me for leaving Popery, if I had
ever been in it?”

“Surely, ma'am; an' I'm sure ma'am, if it's no offence.
I'm clear proud to see 'ee come anighst where I am; I
think it makes me better, only to see 'ee.”

Mrs. Barrè was always dignified and gentle; but now
her look of resolute and hopeful sadness was disturbed.

“Thank you, kindly; but do tell me, Mrs. Barbury!”
she said.

Prudence was very loth to speak; but she spoke.

“It isn' fit 'ee should trouble with it, ma'am; 'ee've
got trouble enough, surely.”

“I shall suffer far more, if I do not know. I beg you
to tell me plainly, and let me set it right.”

“I believe ma'am, it was somethun as might be agen
your good name, they said the Romans had. I'm sure it
was lies, or the Pareson would 'a' knowed it.”

“Do you mean any thing—? What do you mean?
Pray, tell me, like a woman! Do! I've a right to know
it, I'm sure.”

“Oh, it's only somebody's badness, ma'am! I'm

'shamed to say it, ef 'ee wouldn' make me. Some one
has told they that 'ee'd doned somethun agen vartue,—I
didn' heed it,—and so they said 'ee laved the Romans,
for fear of being punished.”

“What! Who could be wicked enough to tell such a
story!” cried Mrs. Barrè.

“That was what they told, ma'am, an' I said it was
lies. Mrs. Freney said it was from the clargy, so they
say.”

The cloud of anxious doubt in Mrs. Barrè's eyes broke
suddenly in tears, as if riven by a thunderbolt.

“It is a most wicked lie!” she said. “Will you say
that it's false, Mrs. Barbury? Will you do that for me?
Don't let my simple friends here believe it! It's wicked
beyond measure.”

“'Deed, I won't, ma'am; an' there's many others won't,
either.”

“Thank you!”—Mrs. Barrè did not stay to say more.

As she went up, again, by the way that she had come,
indignation and sorrow must have struggled hard against
her self-control. She walked fast and strongly, with an
unusual color in her cheeks, and a nervous excitement of
manner.

When she reached the gorge or pass,—(what, in
America, is called a “notch,”)—she heard the voice of
little Mary behind her, calling to her; and, turning
round, saw that she had, unconsciously, got a good way
from the child.

“Mamma! mamma!” said the little thing, coming up,
out of breath and in much distress, “Biddy Freney won't
take this cap that I sewed on purpose for her. She
brought it back to me, and said her mother was very
sorry but she couldn't take it; and I told her I made it

for her my own self, and I showed her where you told
me how to do it and all. Why, do you think, she wouldn't
take it?”

At this moment the mother was fairly overcome by her
feelings, and the tears began to run down her cheeks
“We'll give it to some one else, dear,” she said.

“Are you very sorry, mamma, because she wouldn't
take it? Was it bad in her not to, when I'd made it
for her on purpose?” inquired little Mary, putting her
own construction upon her mother's tears.

The mother wiped them all away, and, taking the little
one by the hand, led her along; but there was no one to
be seen in the road through the pass, and passengers are
few here, and in the loneliness of the place she made
less effort to control her feelings, and the tears came
again. She walked more slowly, thinking sadly, when
the child called out:—

“Mamma! there's the man that came to our house one
day!” and Mrs. Barrè saw, sitting on one of the loose
rocks by the wayside, smoking his pipe, the man who
had brought the message from Father Nicholas,—
Froyne.

“Sarvice to ye, Mrs. Bray! a pleasant walk to ye,
ma'am!” he said, with his pipe in his mouth, not moving
except to keep his face toward her, as she came up and
passed by.

She was no person that would pass an inferior without
knowing and saluting him; but she took no notice whatever
of this man; only walking by, hurriedly, and bidding
little Mary try how far she could keep in front.

That the man got up and walked after her, Mrs. Barrè
might easily hear. She walked the faster for it, until she
reached the settlements on the way up the harbor. She
stopped nowhere until she got home.

There, at length, she told the story of her sad experience
to Miss Dare.

“It's that priest, Father Nicholas!” said her friend.

“It must be!” said Mrs. Barrè; “it's the fulfilment
of his promise!”

“Can't Father Debree set it right?”

“Not yet,” said Mrs. Barrè.

“Then we must speak to Mr. Wellon.”

“Not yet.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Bear it, till it is taken from me.”

“All this will kill you!' exclaimed Fanny Dare.

“Not yet, please God.”