University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
WHAT FATHER DEBREE WAS TOLD, AND WHAT
HE DID.

ALL Conception-Bay (that is, the people of it,)
was restless and excited on the morning after the
occurrences of the night just described, and had
as much to talk of, as if it had been raining hail or meteoric
stones. Indeed, many of its people had been sleepless.

It was about five o'clock, that those of the Peterport
men who had been more immediately concerned in what
was done, were coming into the harbor; but there were
vastly more with them than had been with them during
the former hours of the night. Jesse Hill was one of
the objects of chief interest, if not the chief (for the constable
was left behind); and Isaac Maffen shone with
scarcely lesser lustre, but moved faithfully in his orbit,
notwithstanding the eccentric attractions that beset him.
Jesse commented upon events, and Isaac assented to
Jesse.

The tide of men swelled with added numbers, of both
sexes, as it went on; but, about Franks' Cove, spread
itself, in all directions, and there remained, an excited
and heaving mass of life throughout that part of the
harbor.

At some distance behind the returning population,
Father Debree walked thoughtfully. He looked weary
with night-watching, or unwell. His figure was less erect
and firm than formerly, and his step less strong. As he
came to the spot, where, a few weeks before, he had
stood to gaze upon the scenery of the place to which he
had come, to labor and live in it, he paused unconsciously;
and at the same instant a hasty step approached, and a
voice addressed him. He was a moment in recovering
himself, as he looked into the beautiful face that had so
suddenly shown itself. The words spoken were as abrupt
as the apparition; but they at once fixed his attention.

“You're Father Debree?—Pardon me; I must speak
to you: I'm a friend of Mrs. Barrè's, and I know you're
in some way related to her. She needs help; sadly, but
will never ask it. Some villain has slandered her character;
and I think you may be the fittest person to do
justice to her.”

The deep emotion that possessed the Priest, as he
listened to this hurried address, seemed, from the workings
of his features, to go through many changes; and,
among the changes of expression,—surprise, at the last
words, was very evident amid the evident pain and almost
agony of his look.

Miss Dare hurriedly explained:—

“It has come from some Roman Catholic; and a priest
who knows her, can best put down the lie. I think the
Freneys know where it came from.”

Father Debree put his hand to his brow, and stood
still.

“Won't you see her?—She's had no rest, all night.”

If Father Debree had looked at the speaker, he might
have thought that she, too, had not rested.

“Do you know who did it?” he asked, after struggling
for the mastery of his feelings.

“No, I can fancy; and I think it's one that has done
her some worse wrong before.”

As quickly as light flashes, he turned his straining eyes
upon her, and seemed to read her thought at once.

“Poor, noble woman!—To be slandered, after all!”
said he; and his lip quivered, his voice was choked, and
tears swam in his eyes. “She shall be righted, if I can
do it!—Yes—Yes—I must see her, one moment. Can I
see her, for a moment?—only a moment!”

It was scarce day; and yet Miss Dare seemed to have
no more thought of time than himself: she said:—

“Oh, Yes! Do! Do!” and led him, hurriedly, to the
house.

He waited at the door.

When Mrs. Barrè came down stairs, wan, thin, and
careworn, with scarce strength to walk, she evidently had
not been prepared to meet him.

“Walter!” she almost shrieked, as she sank down.
“Have you come to me, of your own accord?”

It was not possible for her to speak more.

“Help!” cried the Priest; and as Miss Dare came,
he drew near, also, and laid his hand upon her forehead.

It seemed as if the very touch revived her; for she
looked up.

“Oh, Walter! Is it you?” she said again: “how pale
you are!”

She took his hand in both hers; but he gently withdrew
it.

“No, Helen,” he said; “it is not right.”

“Oh! what is right,” she cried, “if that is not? but

Oh! thank you for calling me by my own name again;—
once more!”

Miss Dare turned away, while holding Mrs. Barrè in
her arms, and sobbed convulsively, at the unutterable
pathos and the patience of her voice.

The Priest spoke:—

“Who has wronged you?” said he. “Who has dared
to utter a breath against you? Do not fear to speak
before this young lady; for she told me. Is it Father
Crampton?—Tell me!”

“No; never mind it: I have borne a worse thing.
Let it alone,—unless you please simply to contradict the
cruel falsehood.”

“But I implore you, Helen!—I do not speak as a
priest—”

“I cannot tell; I do not know.”

“But you know another thing, at least. I pray you,
as a brother, not as a priest,—was it Crampton that you
meant, the other night, in what you told me of the confessional?”

“That is not the wrong that I am suffering. That, I
vindicated as a woman: I cannot meet this.”

“I do not ask for vengeance-sake;—God forbid!—but
to do right. You will not let me wrong him. Say `No,'
if it was not he; will you?”

“No. I say `Yes;' it was he. I may as well say
truth plainly, as leave it to be inferred.”

“Thank you!” he said; and, after hesitating, turned
and added:—

“If it be any thing,—if it can be any thing,—be sure
that I honor you: I reverence you,—blessed woman!”

He was gone, instantly.

Father Debree did not pause any where along the

road; no gatherings of men, no sights or sounds, diverted
or delayed him, until he reached the Widow Freney's
house, and flung the door wide open. No one was there.
He walked all round the house, and all about the cove;
no one was to be seen. He turned towards the hill again;
and, as he turned, Mrs. Freney was just coming from the
gorge. He strode up to her.

“Who told this lie?” he asked, as soon as she could
hear him.

“Father Debree?” she asked, astonished and alarmed.

“Who told this lie of Mrs. Barrè?” he repeated.

“Is it a lie, Father Debree?” said she. “I'm sure it
must be, your reverence.”

“Who told you?” he asked again.

“Indeed, it was the constable, Froyne, told me, Father
Debree; but I wouldn't wish him any harm: sure, he
had good reason—”

“It's a LIE, woman! And you took it up, and believed
it, directly, against a friend and benefactor, like
that lady! Do you think that is what the true religion
teaches?”

His manner frightened Mrs. Freney still more.

“It's one o' the clargy told him,” she said.

“Whoever told it, it's a lie! There's not a purer
woman,—or saint,—living,—if she is a Protestant. She
never did, or thought, or understood, any thing that was
not good, in her life! I desire you'll go from one end of
the harbor to the other, and say so, and you may undo
something of what you've helped to do.”

So saying, he left her, and walked, hurriedly, out of
the cove.

Somewhere in his way, he heard himself saluted. It
was by Mr. Wellon, who asked the favor of a few words
with him.

“A report has been circulated among the Roman
Catholics of this—”

“It's an abominable lie!” said Father Debree, interrupting.—“I
have contradicted it. I am going to right
it.—Excuse me.”

And he strode on. The Minister did not seek to stay
him.