 | CHAPTER XLII.
A MIRACLE. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
42. CHAPTER XLII.
A MIRACLE.
WE left judicial matters at Bay-Harbor just at
the point where the judge, having had both
Mr. Bangs and Ladford at his lodgings, had
determined to grant a warrant.
There is always, in the public mind of a community
excited for many days together,—as that of Conception-Bay,
and especially of Bay-Harbor, had been,—a disposition
to expect something; and the presence of Judge
Bearn and the sheriff's deputy among them, just at this
time, occasioned a general ferment among both Roman
Catholics and Protestants.
Rumors, of course, were abundant, within a few hours
after their landing. It was said that a large military force
was to be called out, in case of need; that the three judges
were to assemble in Bay-Harbor; that five hundred
special constables had been sworn in; that the Governor
was coming down; that all the Protestant clergy in the
Bay had publicly requested their flocks to resort to the
scene of expected operations; that the Roman Catholic
clergy had denounced, from the altar, the judges and officers
of the law, and all who might aid or abet them.
In the mean time, however, there was no appearance
of extraordinary activity or occupation in the judge or
crowds from abroad gathered; and so the day passed by
with no more serious disturbance of the peace than a
rough word or so, between occasional Peterport men
and others, and, before evening, the expectation of the
public had much cooled.
Mr. Bangs, returning in the afternoon, after several
days' absence, repaired, like a dutiful disciple, to the feet
of Father O'Toole, for religious instruction; slipping off
(so to speak) the attire of travel and trade, and putting on
the garb of meek and lowly scholarship. Some ripples
of the restless sea of public opinion must, of course, make
their way into this usually quiet retreat, for the wind blew
this way; but, however it may have been with any other
inmates, Father O'Toole showed little feeling of the disturbance
without. With a peaceful equanimity, he held
his place, and went about his duty, as aforetime. All the
edifying and instructive conversation that occupied that
afternoon, we cannot repeat; we keep to that which concerns
and influenced our plot.
After tea, to which the hearty man pressed his convert,
the American “wondered whether he couldn't go 'n
ex'cise, a spell, 'n th' chapil;” and, after the explanation
which was necessary for the worthy priest,—who was not
familiar with the phrase,—he secured the key, and left
his instructor to his evening pipe.
It was not long before Mr. Bangs returned, without his
hat, in haste, and said he “wanted jes' to ask a question
't was on his mind. Father O'Toole,” said he, “d' they
ever have mirycles, or what not, 'n your church?”
“Why, what d'ye mean, then?” said Father O'Toole,
disturbed by the excited look and manner of his disciple.
“There's manny o' them in it, but it's not every one sees
them.”
“Wall, Father O'Toole, what d' they look like?”
asked Mr. Bangs.
“Oh, all sorts o' things they look like! Sure, I couldn't
mind the one half o' them.”
“Can pickchers do 'em?”
“Indeed, it's pictures does the most o' them, by all
accounts.”
“Wall, I tell ye what,—'f you b'lieve it,—that pickcher
o' your's there ain't a faint attempt! 'T must be one o'
the pre-Adamite school, or a real Rayfael, 't Cap'n
Stiles's son used to talk about, b'fore he got int' the
regular business o' painting carts, 'n' wagons, 'n' barns
— b't, 's I's sayin'; I guess ye'll think I've seen a
mirycle!”
“Y'are dreamin', man, I think!”
“I'm ruther wide awake, mos' gen'ally; but the' wus a
round, bright place on the wall, b' that pickcher, 's big
as —.”
“'Twas the moon, it was,” said the Priest, getting more
interested.
“'Twould 'a' ben a mirycle, any way; for the moon
ain't up; an' 'nother, too, 'f ye c'd see it through the
wall.”
“It must have been a reflection of it, some way; ye
know there's eclipses and changes; an' some o' them 's
very quare, too, an' only come round once in a while.”
“I'm aware o' that, Father O'Toole,” said the American;
“b't I wish ye'd jes' step over, 'f 'taint too much
trouble, 'n' take a look at it;—I come right off.”
Father O'Toole complied, and the two went.
“I ruther laughed at winkin' pickchers, one spell,” said
the disciple, by the way; “but 't 'll be a startlin' sound
't the Day 'Judgment t' hear a pickcher singin' out `Look
a' here! I winked at ye, but ye wouldn't repent.'”
Out of doors that night the stars and their surrounding
darkness had the whole heavens to themselves,—no moon
was there. So clear, however, was the air, that the night
was not dark; and it was cool enough, with the fresh
breath of the sea, to make a good draught of it a comfort.
The dogs seemed to enjoy it, and kept it in continual stir
with their antiphonal barking; throwing all through it a
melody as musical as that of some of the best Italian
boatmen, who breathe their lungs as stoutly as they stretch
their brawny arms, deforming Tasso's stately rhymes with
their coarse speech, and making the deformity all filthy
with foul garlic. The worst point in the vocal efforts of
our dogs is their remitting, but unwearied and unending
noisiness.
The occasional clink or thump of something on board
a vessel, or the steady plying of some patient oars, falls
pleasantly on the ear in this calm night.
Father Terence and his companion made their way
hastily through the dusk over the short distance that separated
them from the chapel.
“Here's where I was,” said Mr. Bangs, in a reverential
and agitated whisper, groping in the darkness of the
place. “Shouldn't want t' go 'ny nigher;” and he went
down dump upon his knees. “Wunt you jes' take hold
an' lift up, Father O'Toole?”
“An' what's it y'are afther, then?” asked the Priest.
“Why, 'f 'taint to' much trouble, Father O'Toole,”
whispered Mr. Bangs, in an agitated voice, “t' take f'r
a man, (an' 'n American, 't's jest steppin' on t' the Catholic
platform,) wunt you jest jine 'n prayer,—'n Lat'n or
Greek, or what not, 'f ye want to, c'nsiderin' ye're a
priest,—'can't do 'ny harm to pray, certin';—'ve got a
bundle here, 'll be k'nd o' soft f' yer knees; 'n 'f you'll
Bangs, ye know,) I'll be a kneelin' a little ways off f'm
ye, l'k' the publican.”
“Indeed, an' there's no harm 'n a few prayers, as ye
were sayin', Mr. Bangs; an' it's the Catholics are the
great prayers,” said Father O'Toole, whose preparations
for going down upon his knees, as well as could be judged
by the ear, in the dark, were as deliberate and on as large
a scale as those of a horse.
“'F ye wunt think hard o' me f' mentionin' it, 'don't
b'lieve 't 'll be a prayer, or two, 't 'll do. 'T must be a
c'ntinuin' on, luk Moses on Mount Hur, 'en Aaron took
'n' boosted 'm up,” urged the convert, in a whisper,
again.
Before the Priest had addressed himself fairly to his
work, but, as it seemed, after he had got to a lower posture,
he snuffed the air and said:—
“Mr. Bangs, had ye the incense-boat, when ye wor in
it? or what's this warrm smell I feel, like something
hatin', I'd like to know.”
“Wall, that's curi's; I haven't had 'ny boat 'r ship,
'thout it's wo'ship. Somethin' heatin', ye say? It's 's dark
's Egypt; 'n' I've heard Muther Byles Slack, 'n 'e 's
d'liv'rin' a Fourth o' July oration, talk 'bout `simmerin'[1]
darkness;' b't 'never thought 'sh'd live t' see it,” said
Mr. Bangs. “Le's pray!”
Intense silence followed, and darkness most intense
continued. The great crowd of a Sunday or a high festival,
with smoking incense and pealing song, could not
be more impressive. A deep, steady breathing, growing
slower, and deeper, and steadier, began to be heard from
Father Terence.
Presently a loud crash startled the priest, and he exclaimed:—
“Mr. Bangs! What's this?”
“'Mirycle's c'mmencin', likely,” answered the American,
in an excited whisper; “'heard a voice a spell ago
callin' me by name, as plain 's I hear you; 't seemed t'
be a voice o' c'nsid'ble power, but ruther softened, sayin'
`Mister Bangs!'”
“That's like the Praste, Haly,* in the temple! Indeed,
it's a wonder but it 'll say more t'ye. Ave Maria!
gratiæ plena.”
“Haley?” asked Mr. Bangs; “'T couldn't 'a' ben one
o' the Haleys down t' Salem, 'twas a priest. Oh! 'n the
Temple o' Solomon, ye say, Father O'Toole?—Wall—.”
At this moment something happened which restored
the intense silence that had been broken, and made even
the American a party to it. A light burst through or
upon the wall, (or so it seemed,) on which the picture
hung. Father O'Toole breathed hard, and then all was
breathless. The light grew fixed and strong—a circle
like a great halo. The light was darkened by an advancing
figure,—it seemed of some animal. It took definite
shape and was still, then suddenly disappeared.
“Why, 'e's got hold o' th' wrong one!” exclaimed Mr.
Bangs, in his whisper.
“Mater misericordiæ!” cried the Priest. “What's
this, at all! Oh, Holy Virgin! 'Twas one o' the souls
in Purrgat'ry I seen, in a figyer!”
“Why, ye don't say!” answered the convert.
“'Twas, thin! It's what we may all come to. 'Twas
a rat I seen; its the way they look.”[2]
“Ye saw a rat! Wall, I've heard o' smellin' a rat;
I'm glad 'twa'n't 'fensive t' yer olfact'ries, 'm sure.”
“How d'ye be able to talk that way, an' you seein'
what ye seen!” said the priest, sternly.
At this point, again, all conversation was interrupted
by what followed in the lighted circle.
Again the light was dimmed by an advancing figure;
this time, of a lady; and as it stood still and became
more distinct, Father Terence exclaimed, in a tone of
the strongest feeling—
“It's Herself 's in it! Oh! Virgo Excellens! Virgo
Præclara!”
“'N Purgytory? 'Thought yer reg'lar saints didn't
go into it,” said Mr. Bangs, in spite of the excitement
and terror that appeared in his voice, yet finding exercise
for his tongue. “'Guess that ain't Purgytory, Father
O'Toole.”
“She's often in it, then—(Ave Maria! Turris Eburneus!
Turris David! Virgo Virginum!)—every Saturday,
[3]
(Refugium Peccatorum!) an' other times, to take
out souls.”
The figure, though not perfectly distinct, certainly did
seem to wear the dress and had the air of the Virgin in
the picture. Another figure began to show itself, and
was watched, doubtless, with fearful intentness; the silence
was as perfect as before. It was a kneeling man.
“It's a praste!” said Father O'Toole, in a low voice;
and both were silent.
“W' 't looks amazin' like—.”
“Don't say it, then!” interrupted Father Terence,
with the most excited earnestness. “Oh! whatever 'll
a crown in her hand!”
“W' I couldn't stand it 'f 'twus me; 'sh'd go right off,
in a minit,” said Mr. Bangs.
Another figure of a man slowly appeared; the figure
of the priest receded. The new shape came forward,
slowly, and as it grew entire and clear, showed itself to
be sitting in an easy attitude, with a (comparatively)
modern hat in its lap. It stopped. The head received
the crown which had been waiting in the Virgin's hand.
“'t jest fits him!” said the admiring Mr. Bangs,
“looks handsome in it, too! Ruther prom'n'nt chap,
sh'd judge.”
“It's ye'rself, that is, anny way,” said the Priest; “an'
the crown manes that meself 's the instrument o' savin'
yer soul! Ah! if Father Nicholas was in it! and the
rest o' them! D'ye see it's ye'rself, Mr. Bangs?—Indade,
I'm thinkin' the man 's killed!” The last words were
added as he got no answer.
“'Tain't poss—wh' look a' here! Wall, I never!” cried
the American in confused alarm, after a pause in which
he seemed wrestling with his feelings.
The apparition disappeared; and all was dark; and in
that quarter, and in others, a noise was heard, though not
a crash, like that which had preceded the miraculous exhibition.
There seemed a visionary or spectral flight along the
floor. There was a rattling and clinking, as in other
apparitions (it may have been a sound of chains); and,
as in other apparitions, the door of the chapel opened
violently, and shut with the same violence, twice;—and
all was still within.
The spectral flight was continued on the outside of the
seen crossing the open ground.
“Look a' here! Mr. Frank,” said one of them to the
other. “How, under the canopy, d'd you git that glass,
'th th' rat on it, in? Didn't know 'twas there. Wall,
hold on, now! Must let the folks all know 'bout the
mirycle, 'n' send 'em over.” With these words the
spectral figure went up to the door of the nunnery, and
began to knock, earnestly. The moon was now near to
rising; and a silver largess was scattered before its car.
“'T's Mr. Bangs 't Father Terence 's ben convertin',
Miss Jerushy—I mean sister Theresy,—(I'm all of a
heap,) mirycle, over here, 't chapil! mirycle! mirycle!”
(a shriek came from within, followed by another, and then
another.) “Father O'Toole wants every b'dy over; 'd
have sent a lady, 'f the'd ben one. Right over here, 't
the chapil! Wants ye all f' witnesses!”
Presently there was another hurtling in the air; and
spectral flight of many figures darker than night in which
they moved, towards the miracle-holding chapel. The
nuns left their own quarters to loneliness and silence.
| CHAPTER XLII.
A MIRACLE. The new priest in Conception Bay | |