 | CHAPTER LIX.
LUCY'S HOME-COMING. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
59. CHAPTER LIX.
LUCY'S HOME-COMING.
SEVERAL of the schooners, but not all of those
that had been, during the summer, at Labrador,
had come merrily home, with colors flying and all
sail set, and muskets now and then fired off, and with now
and then a cheer from the happy crew. The harbor was,
of course, fuller of people and more astir with them, than
it had been for months; the harbor-road was more frequented,
and disused flakes were thronged.
The story of the strange happenings had been told and
retold, at flake and fireside, and now there was a general
longing and looking out for the home-coming of the “Spring
Bird” and Skipper George's long-lost daughter. The other
schooners, too, from Labrador, were more quietly expected.
The weather was very beautiful, and summer was gently
resting after its work done. The sky was blue as the
deep sea; and just enough spotted with white clouds to
show its blueness fairly. The soft and pleasant wind
came over and through the inland woods, and blew
steadily out over the Bay, to the Fair Island and St.
John's.
On such an October day Mrs. Barrè and Miss Dare
were walking together down the harbor, and drew near
the top of Whitmonday Hill. In outward appearance
more restless, and sought occupation more eagerly, now
that her great work was taken out of her hands, and she
had only to wait for the great issue of it. Her husband
must be, by this time, in Halifax, if nothing had happened
to him, and in a few weeks more, after her long widowhood,
she might hope to have him restored to her, from
whom she ought never to have been separated, in this
short and uncertain life. More than one long letter she
had got from him, in the few days that he was detained at
New-Harbor, before sailing; and more than one she had
written to him; and now they were cut off from each
other for a while, with the prospect of soon joining their
lives together in one, not to be again separated, unless by
death.
The two ladies stopped on the top of Whitmonday
Hill, and at the moment a white sail was crossing so
much of the Bay as was open to them where they stood.
“There's a schooner from Labrador for some harbor
up the Bay,” said Miss Dare. “She's heading for Blazing
Head, now!” said she, again, as she watched the sight
which is always so interesting. “She's coming in here, depend
upon it; they expect Abram Marchant next. Let's
wait and see her come in.”
Mrs. Barrè fixed her eyes upon the moving vessel in
silence, and an unusual glow of interest was given, even
to their deep seriousness; the coming in of an absent
vessel had much meaning for her.
The fair, broad, white spread of canvas came steadily on;
a most lovely sight to look upon. The wind, as we have
said, was blowing out of the harbor, and any vessel entering
must tack within it. The sail in question stood steadily
across, without stirring tack or sheet, towards Blazing
miles; a fine, large craft, and handled beautifully. Now
she went about, her sails shook and flapped as she crossed
the wind, and then filled on the other tack, and showed all
her broadside.
“And what's the matter with the mosquito fleet?[1]
they're all coming in, as fast as they can row; there must
be a death on board. No; she's got all her colors flying:—It
must be Lucy! it must be Lucy! That's
the `Spring Bird!' There's Uncle's house-flag; and—
there's Lucy!”
Mrs. Barrè did not escape the excitement that animated
her companion; and tears, that had been so familiar
to her eyes, came quietly into them.
“It's very likely indeed,” said she; “it's time to look
for her.”
“It is she; I see her at this distance; that white figure,
standing near the stern. Ah! my dear Mrs. Barrè,
don't cry; there'll be a happier return yet, before long;”
and she put her arm round her friend's waist.
Confident that she was right, Miss Dare began to wave
her handkerchief. Certainly, the punts were all coming
in for dear life; while the brig, with her broad canvas,
held her way steadily and without a sound; and presently,
when nearly opposite Frank's Cove, went deliberately and
most gracefully about again. This tack would bring her
well up the harbor, and she was soon gliding along, outside
of Grannam's Noddle—her hull hidden by the island
—and soon she came out from behind it.
There was a woman's figure, in white, apart from the
dark figures of the sailors, and leaning against the quarter-rail,
on the lee-side; and suddenly, as if making out
twice, which might be an answer to Miss Dare's signal of
welcome.
“There! isn't that just like the little thing?” asked
Fanny, at the same time turning hurriedly up the harbor.
“She isn't sobbing or fainting, though her heart's as full
as it can be; but she's too modest to return our greeting!
I'll venture to say she's looking the other way, or on the
deck. She's a dear girl!—I must be first to tell her
father and mother, if I can; shall we go up?”
If Lucy was, indeed, too bashful to believe the signal
to be made for her, or that she was recognized, there was
some one else on board who was less timid. Captain
Nolesworth gallantly took off his hat and bowed, and
waved his hat about his head, in silent triumph. There
was a busy stir on board, as if the men were full of the
importance of the occasion; and on land as well as on
the water, a sympathetic movement was taking place; the
punts were coming in, at their utmost speed, dashing the
water from their eager bows and straining oars; and men
and women were coming out of Frank's Cove, and over
the hill from Mad Cove, beyond, and out of every little
neighborhood. Mrs. Barrè and Miss Dare, however,
were before them all; and they hurried on, to keep their
advantage, while the brig went her way by water. The
Captain's voice could be heard distinctly, as he ordered the
men to “clew up the foresail,” and then to “let that
cracky[2]
bark.” In obedience to the last order, a brass
ten-pounder stunned the air, and made the far-off hills to
echo; and on came the brig, the smoke rolling off, and
breaking up to leeward.
Miss Dare reached the top of the ridge that bounded
stir in that neighborhood, and while the oblique course of
the brig had carried her over towards Sandy-Harbor, a
half mile or so farther off than when opposite Whitmonday
Hill.
Mrs. Barbury, who had been, apparently, standing on
a rock a little back from the edge of the ridge, came
wildly down, as the young lady went up, staying a moment
to ask, “Is it Lucy, Miss Dare?” and saying that
“he knew it the very first gleam he saw of the brig's canvas.”
She then ran on, up the harbor, to be at the stage-head
before the vessel got there.
Miss Dare went, hastily, a little farther towards the
old planter's house, but stopped before reaching it, and
turned back. Who can tell a father's heart, that has not
one? She could see Skipper George on his knees, by
the bedside, in the little room. He had stayed at home
that day, for some reason of his own.
With another tack the brig stood over for Mr. Worner's
stage, and again fired a gun. The whole harbor,
now, was alive; and from every quarter people were
walking and running, (little ones trying to keep up with
their mothers and elders,) towards Mr. Worner's premises.
“We'd better hold back a little, I suppose,” said Miss
Dare, as she joined Mrs. Barrè again; “though I should
like to see her when she first touches land, and hear the
first word she speaks.”
Up the harbor went the brig and the boats, by water;
and up and down the harbor went the people from the
different directions, toward the same point,—Mr. Worner's
stage. Mrs. Barrè's chamber-window commanded a view,
over Mr. Naughton's storehouse, of Messrs. Worner,
Grose & Co.'s premises, which were half a quarter of a
the window.
The punts were getting in; the brig was drawing up,
taking off sail after sail; the people were hurrying, and
there was a sound of many voices. The ladies did not
stay long at the window; but they, too, followed the current
of life up to the place where the brig was expected.
“I haven't seen Skipper George go by,” said Miss
Dare. “I hope it won't be too much for him.”
It was attempted to make way for the ladies; and it
would have been done,—though slowly and hardly,—but
such was the crowd all over the stage, that they sought
refuge in one of the stores, and took their stand at a window
in the loft. Never was there such a time in Peterport;
never, but at the funeral of the four Barburies had
there been such a crowd within men's memory. The
stage was covered; the neighboring flakes were covered;
the boats floated full; children cried to be lifted up; people
stood a-tiptoe; eyes were straining; faces were flushed
and eager,—it seemed as if the blood would scarcely keep
within its vessels. The men on board the brig went
nimbly about their work in perfect silence; every order
came distinctly to land. All the lower sails were out of
the way; jib, foretopmast-stay-sail, foresail, mainsail,
spanker; but there was no woman on deck. The Captain
called out,—
“We've got her, Mrs. Barbury, all safe!”
“Thank God!” cried the mother, who was at the outmost
verge of the stage; and, before the words had gone
from her, there went up a mingled shout and cry from
men, women, and children. The brig had come up into the
wind, and again the ten-pounder flashed and roared, and
the smoke rolled away aft. Women shook hands with one
eyes, and tears ran down Mrs. Barrè's pale, soft
cheek. Then Jesse Hill's bluff voice was heard (from
the water, of course):—
“I'll take a line[3] ashore for 'ee, Cap'n Noseward.”
“Thank 'ee, Mr. Barbury,” answered the captain;
“I'd best bring up in the stream. Somebody bring the
father and mother aboard; will ye?”
Down went the anchor with a splash, and rattling of
chain; and the brig's voyage was, in a moment, at an
end.
Two boats were most active and conspicuous, among
the many that floated about the vessel, and the two, at
the captain's word, drew near the stage. In one Jesse
Hill's fur cap and bright hair predominated, astern, and
Isaac Maffen held the chief oar; the other was occupied
by young men, and was steered by a silent young man,
that was, probably, not unobserved this day,—James
Urston.
The latter rather held back, and yielded precedence to
Jesse; and Jesse, coming up to the stage, and having inquired
and called for his Uncle George, without success,
took in the mother, and made all speed for the vessel's
side. Captain Nolesworth had her hoisted in, man-of-war
fashion, and, in an instant, the daughter and mother
were in each other's arms. The captain, by way of occupying
the time, called out,—
“Now, boys, we'll change work, and try how this air
tastes, after being on sea so long. Let's have three
cheers! and you, Ghost, set the pitch.”
The biggest man among the crew stood forth, sheepishly,
pushed forward by his laughing fellows; but,
cheers were given by the crew; an irregular, prolonged
cheering came from the land.
After a short time allowed, the kindly neighbors began
to ask abundant questions, across the water, to Jesse,
who kept his place in the punt at the brig's side, as to
whether she “was hearty,” and “looked as she used to,”
and so forth; in answer to which Jesse once or twice repeated
that he had not seen her, and they must be patient
a little. Meantime, Jesse was busy holding communications
with the occupants of several punts near him, which
set off, this way and that, like adjutants on a review day.
It was soon understood that Skipper George's daughter
was to be escorted home with a public demonstration.
The field for every thing of that sort, among our fishermen,
is the water; and so there was a general bustle to
get and bring into service whatever boat was capable of
swimming.
Skipper George was understood to be at home; and it
was also understood that the Parson had gone down to him.
Jesse himself left his post and hurried over to Mrs.
Barrè and Miss Dare, to ask whether “the ladies 'ould
be so well-plased to give the people the honor of their
company in a bit of a possession that was going to be
down harbor. Cap'n Nosewood,” he said, “was going in
'e's boat, and so was Abram Frank, in Mr. Worner's; and
e'er a one would be clear proud to take they.” Having
gained their consent, he hurried back, and in a minute or
two, had passed through the crowd of small craft, and was
at the brig's quarter again. James Urston's boat was
there, and his drew up alongside of it.
When Lucy appeared at the vessel's side, the welcome
given her was enthusiastic. Jesse regarded his wonderful
held her in much the same estimation; and she
never looked more bright and handsome than now. She
was rather stouter than she had formerly been; her eyes
glanced, and her cheeks glowed, and her black hair
floated, as they used, and a pretty little straw bonnet,
with bright red about it, made her look sweetly. She
glanced down at the two boats, and over all the glad
faces everywhere and smiled and blushed. The men all
had their hats off, and the women waved their hands, or
handkerchiefs, and words of welcome came from every
side. No one could have gone through a studied part so
beautifully as she went through hers; and every turn of her
head and movement of her body, brought forth new shouts
from her excited neighbors. Her eyes came back over
the same course that they had gone, and passed, last, over
the two boats just below her.
Mrs. Barbury was received with much state by her
nephew, and escorted to a seat; and then Lucy, on whom
all eyes were fixed, was hoisted over the side, and lowered
down the little distance from the rail to the level of the
punts. Somehow, a slight side-motion was given to the
chair; more than one hand was reached towards her;
she gave her hand and set her feet, without looking;—
but it was into James Urston's boat that she went.
“She's mistook,” said Jesse, to whom the programme
of his “Possession” was the foremost thing, and who did
not, perhaps, (like many other ritualists,) see how things
would go on, unless according to the programme.
“No, no, Mr. Barbury,” said Captain Nolesworth,
laughing, “the ladies know what they're about. That
must be the young priest we heard of. It's my opinion
she's meant to take her passage in his boat.”
At this, the public, who are generally quick-witted and
quick-hearted in such matters, took it up, and gave
“three cheers for young Mr. Urston.”
The young man received the distinction and the gratulation
in modest silence; Lucy blushed deeply; and Jesse
reconciled himself to circumstances.
“Where's Mr. Piper?” cried the chief manager of the
“possession.” A voluntary flourish, on the fiddle, answered
the question, and showed that the worthy Irishman
knew what faculty made his company most valuable.
Without loss of time, in marshalling the array, the
several boats fell in; the music, under Billy Bow's pilotage,
in advance, in the centre column; Jesse following,
with a large ensign fastened to a boat-hook, and supported
by two men,—which ensign there was not wind enough
to spread;—then Lucy, in young Urston's boat; and
then—whoever came next, in a long row, while on
each side was a parallel line of punts, keeping even way.
The fiddle struck up the National Anthem, and continued
to fill a part of the air with melody; the oars hurled back
the water, and bravely the procession swept on, not far
from shore; muskets now and then, and here and there,
breaking forth into joy. The water gleamed and glanced,
and the very cliffs seemed glad,—taking up and saying
over the sounds from every side.
At Marchants' Cove, an unexpected interruption came.
It had been Jesse Barbury's plan to go down round the
island, and come back to this cove again; but, as they
reached it, Lucy exclaimed “There's Father!” and the
punt that bore her, as instantly as if it were moved by her
mere will, was urged towards the land,—breaking out of
the procession.
The father stood upon the beach, beneath a flake, gazing,
as the boat drew near, and he walked into the water, to
his knees, to meet her. Several of the young men turned
away, as the brave old fisherman opened his arms, and
she embraced him and leaned upon his neck. He lifted
her up, as when she had been a child.
“I'm too heavy for you, father,” said she.
“Ah! my dear maid,” he answered, “ef 'ee could only
know how light 'ee make my heart!” and he bore her
away to land, as if she had been an infant; and then,
holding her hand in his, he turned to his neighbors, and
baring his head, said,—
“I thank 'ee, kindly, friends, for all your goodness:
and I humbly thank my Best Friend, for all 'E's goodness.”
He then bowed his head to his breast.
What may have prevented the people generally from
noticing Skipper George, until his child's quick eye discovered
him, and her hurried words proclaimed him, was
the approach of a punt, from the direction of Sandy
Harbor, which now came up.
“Wall, I guess ye may's well hold on, Mr. Kames,
'thout you mean to run somebody down,” said one of the
two occupants, to his companion. “What's t' pay, Mr.
Barberry? Lucy c'me home? 'S that her? Ye don't
say! Wall she's kind 'o left ye, I guess, hasn't she? b't
we c'n go on 'th the meetin'. Tell ye what's the right
thing: go to work 'n' organize, 'n' pass s'me res'lutions, 'n
'spur o' the moment.”
As Mr. Bangs spoke, the boats had gathered round;
their course being interrupted, and he was the centre of
a large flotilla.
“Sh' didn't b'come a Papist, I b'lieve? 'tain't th' fashion,
jest now, 't seems.”
“Without they haves a miracle to convart 'em, Mr.
Banks,” said Billy Bow.
“Wall, the's no tellin' 'bout mirycles,” answered Mr.
Bangs; “b't 's I's sayin', I guess ye'd better give Mrs.
Barberry, there, her choice, whether she'd ruther stay t'
the proceedings, or go right home. The's no 'bjection,
under the broad canopy, t' havin' ladies:—fact, they're 'n
addition.”
Notwithstanding Mr. Bangs's intimation, however, Mrs.
Barbury had no wish to enjoy that particular privilege of
her sex, in being an addition to the meeting, and Jesse
prepared to turn his prow to the beach.
“'S goin' t' pr'pose 't Mr. Barberry, ('r Mr. Hill,)
there, sh'd take the chair and preside,” said Mr. Bangs.
“Might let Mr. Urston take Mrs. Bar-berry, now his
hand's in, 'f the's no 'bjection;—or, I guess we better
make the pr'ceedin's short. Look a'here; you jest take
the chair, Mr. Barberry,” said he, aside; then to the multitude:
“'F it be yer minds, please t' signify it;—'tis a
unanimous vote!” (not an individual saying or doing any
thing whatever except himself,)—“There, ye saw how
I did it,” said he again, as prompter, to Jesse; “'s no
matter 'bout a chair, ye know.—Look a'here, Mr. Frank,”
he continued, to Billy Bow, “Guess you'd better move
first res'lution.”
“Which w'y'll he move, Mr. Banks?” inquired Jesse,
anxious to discharge his part.
“Oh! ain't any of ye used to it; wall, shall have to
move, myself; you say you second me, Mr. Frank; and
then you ask 'em 'f 't's their minds, Mr. Hill. Mr. Chairman,
I move —” (the women and other on-lookers
were very much entertained and astonished,) “I move
you, sir, that `We cannot repress the unspeakable emotions
That's one way the' have o' doin' it.”
While these lofty and appropriate words and sentiments
were addressed to him, the chairman gazed in admiration
at the utterer, and from him cast glances, to
either side, at the audience, of whom some of the women
were a good deal amused, as if it were fun.
“Guess we m't 's well stop there, f' the present,” said
the mover: “Wunt ye jest try that, first?”
Jesse scratched his head, in the sight of all the people,
and Mr. Bangs began prompting him, in a lower voice,
distinctly audible everywhere. The chairman, also, began
to repeat after him, as follows:—
“Mr. Banks says `'e can't express his unspeakable
motions'” — and then broke.
“Do 'ee mean to say we're clear proud, Mr. Banks?”
asked he. “Ef 'ee do, we'll s'y so;” and, turning to the
public, said: “Ef we're glad over she coming back,
please to show it. Hurray!”
“Hurray!” shouted the people, male and female.
“It is an annual vote!” said the chairman. “There,
Mr. Banks!”
The meeting dispersed, and left the water to the gentle
wind and sunshine; and a sweet sight was seen on land;
how Lucy went to meet and how she met the Minister:
but would not let go her father's hand; then how prettily
she looked, as Mrs. Barrè and Miss Dare welcomed and
kissed her; and then how prettily she lingered to meet
and greet her neighbors.
| CHAPTER LIX.
LUCY'S HOME-COMING. The new priest in Conception Bay | |