University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
A STATION AT HENRAN'S INN.

FATHER DEBREE had celebrated mass and
vespers on Sunday, in the unfinished chapel at
Castle-Bay, and had given notice of a station to
be held at Michael Henran's public-house in Peterport,
on Wednesday following, in the afternoon.

This inn stands opposite Beachy-Cove, on the other side
of the road from Mrs. Barrè's, and on a good deal higher
ground.

A straight drung goes up from the road into an open
space about the house, a moderate-sized building, long for
its thickness, painted white some years ago, and looking
well enough adapted for the inn of such a place. For
hospitable purposes it has a room down stairs (beside that
occupied by the cobbler—nay, shoemaker,)—and two
rooms on the next floor also.

The inn fronts nearly south, like almost all the houses,
and has a door in front with a smooth stone before it, and
a door at the east end, that looks “down harbor.” There
is a southward view (over the little grove of firs, fenced
in on the other side of the road) to Sandy Harbor; the
upper part of that harbor, Wantful, being alone seen over
the rocky ridge, which like that of Peterport grows higher
as it goes down toward the Bay.

Beyond this nearest tongue of land (and rock) may be
seen others, though not divided to the eye at this height,
by water, and far off the southern border of Conception-Bay,
beautiful in its silent rocky strength and varied outline.
Inland, again, lie mysterious-looking, many-colored
mountains of broken rock, shaded with deep crevices
perhaps, or with the dark-green “Vars”[1] and other
never-changing forest-trees.

The scenery, at the time of which we write, was overhung
and hung around with far-off heaped clouds, turned
up and flecked with crimson, with the bright red of the
furnace and the pale red of the shell, grandly and gorgeously
as ever clouds were painted under any sky. It
is a sort of scenery,—this of a splendid summer's sunset,
—which by its drawing out the eye toward the horizon
and upward toward the sky, stretches the mind as well,
(it may be backward to memories far left behind; it may
be forward to far hopes, or thoughts of things beyond this
earth and this earth's life,) and gives to all minds, unless
insensible to such influences, a tendency to mysterious
musing.

A little company had gathered round the inn, before
the time, and had been here waiting ever since, while the
afternoon had passed away. The priest had not come.
The foremost were a number of old women, adjusting
every now and then some difficulty of slight character, as
one might judge, and some of them grumbling in a low
voice.

Behind these elders and among them were an old man
or two, then some young women, very silent, for the most
part; some of them looking quite absorbed and earnest,
one or two whispering and perhaps discussing the appearance

or the character of a companion, or of the
veterans in front, and one or two of them occasionally
mischievous in joking “practically,” as the phrase goes,
pulling a shawl or ribbon for example, or inflicting sudden
pinches unobserved. Below again,—about the door, inside
and outside,—were a man or two, reserved and meditative,
smoking a pipe apart, or leaning silently against
the door, or on the fence outside; and many younger men
talking together in low tones and passing homely jokes on
one another.

At length there was a sudden change of state among
these little groups; the priest passed through them,
hastily, explaining and apologizing for his being late.
Then the noise of feet that, when restrained and tutored,
only made noise the more methodically, succeeded to the
other sounds, and the whole company soon disappeared
above.

The office of Vespers passed, in English; and afterward,
the congregation having gone out, the priest seated
himself near the table on which the crucifix was standing
and the candles burning, and beside the open doorway
leading from the larger front room to a smaller one
behind.

Mr. Duggan, the clerk, sat at the opposite side of the
large room, reading in a low voice, (perhaps the VII
Penitential Psalms.)

Presently, one by one, some members of the late congregation
came into the back room from the hall, and
kneeling at the backside of the partition, made their confessions.

One old body planted herself upon her knees not far
inside the door, counting the beads of a rosary of which
every body knew the history, which was repeated or

alluded to, every time the historic beads appeared;
namely, that it was of disputed and very uncertain proprietorship;
and being the only one possessed among the
neighbors in a certain part of the harbor, was now in one
family, now in another, and unhappily had attached to it
as many feuds as any belt of Indian wampum passes
through, though not so deadly. However, the present
holder was making devoted use of it just now. Hail
Mary after Hail Mary went over her lips and through
her fingers, in a low mumble of the former and slow
fumble of the latter, her head bowing and body swinging
always, but with a slight difference, at times, indicating, as
well as the larger beads, when she was engaged with a
pater-noster.

One by one had passed away, after confession; the
evening had been wearing on, and had grown silent and
more silent; the neighborly men who had gone into the
lower penetralia of the inn to have a chat and smoke,
and, in some cases, a drink, had mostly gone and left the
place; the stairs seemed empty; when there came in at
the door below and up the stairs, a dark figure of a
woman. Mike Henran, the host, half asleep as he was,
catching a half-glance at something unusual passing by
the open door of the room in which he and an exhausted
friend or two were sleeping or dozing, got softly up, of a
sudden, out of his nap, and walking to the doorway,
looked up after the late comer, and then, lighting a new
pipe, sat down to wake and sleep again. The shawl, the
black dress, the hood, the veil, concealed her face and
person.

The old body and her beads had clambered up from
the position in which we have seen them, and, having
staid their time at the priest's side, had hobbled back and

passing through the door, had heavily come down stairs—
observed by Henran—and departed.

As the old woman passed away, looking most likely,
rather at her precious rosary than any thing beside, the
female, who had just come up the stairs and was now
standing beside the doorway, and between it and the outside
window of the entry, turned with clasped hands and
stood in a fixed posture, as if, through the dark folds of
her veil, her eyes were peering forth into the great
solemn night, down into which the far, far, earnest stars
were casting light as into a great sea.

Against the door-post, the lonely figure leaned, her
hands still clasped; and then, raising her silent, shrouded
face toward heaven, she steadily and strongly set her
face forward and went in to where the priest was. Here,
in the middle of the room, she paused; Father Ignatius
neither moved nor looked up, as she stood; the clerk
breathed very hard in a deep sleep; and still she paused.
At length, not looking up, nor moving, but sitting with
his eyes fastened to the floor, he said: “Why do you
stay? I'm waiting for you.”