University of Virginia Library

60. CHAPTER LX.
FATHER DE BRIE'S LAST INTERVIEW WITH FATHER
TERENCE.

LONG years had passed to Mrs. Barrè: but, perhaps,
these weeks were longer; for waiting hope
is not the same as waiting expectation. Certainly,
she seemed to be wasting under it; though she threw herself
into the joy of the harbor at Lucy's coming back.

October went by, and November came and was going
by. The season had been a fine, open, bright one; and
some young people from Labrador, had seen, as they
said, “the color of their own country” for the first time in
their lives, to their remembrance; some flurries of snow
came about the first of November, and since, but not
much cold.

Another person was waiting and looking out,—perhaps
with a father's fondness, (but that is not a wife's,) for Mr.
De Brie's return: it was Father Terence.

He had left a most urgent message, through a Roman
Catholic merchant of New Harbor, desiring Mr. De Brie
to wait, just a few hours, at that place, until Father Terence
could see him; and had also provided (to the astonishment
of the fishermen,) for news of the vessel to be
brought him from the fishing-ground if she passed by daylight.
On Saturday, the twenty ninth day of November,
early in the morning, the news came into Bay-Harbor,

that Mr. Oldhame's schooner was standing across Conception
to Trinity Bay.

It had been chilly, rainy weather, soaking every thing,
for two days; and this day was a dull, dark one, covered
with leaden clouds: very little wind blowing.

Father Terence started immediately to cross the Barrens;
having before engaged a stout horse, and taking
two guides; one of whom (Mike Henran, the Peterport
landlord,) was also mounted; the footman having taken
the first start, and gained a couple of miles, or so, upon
the equestrians.

The good Priest, as he had been urgent in his preparations,
so was eager on the way. The smooth road he
got over at a good rate, and entered, manfully, upon the
broken hubbly path among the stones and stunted firs, and
over the moss and morasses. Great mops of thickly-matted
evergreen boughs swabbed against him, and sometimes
struck him a severe blow, as his great beast surged
against them, and then let them slip from his shoulder.
Down precipitious leaps, and, in like manner, up to the
top of low rocks; then straining and rolling from side to
side, as the beast drew one hoof after another out of a
little patch of meadow, soggy with the rain, Father Terence
made his way, silently occupied with his thoughts;
except when, occasionally, he became anxious lest his horse
should hurt himself in the rough and miry path. Newfoundland
horses are used to ways of that sort; and the
one that he now rode, though not familiar with the Barrens,
got on very fairly. Between the ponds, however,
there are wider meadows; and Father Terence entering,
fearless, upon the first of these, found his horse, after a
few steps and a heavy jump, or two, sinking down to the
saddle-girths. His mounted guide, (a small man, on a

nimble little pony,) was going over it like a duck or sea-gull.

The Priest dismounted instantly, and summoned his
two attendants to his aid.

“I think he's gittin' someway tired,” said he, “his feet's
that heavy.”

“The ground's very saft, Father Tirence, and the harse
is too big an' solid for it,” said Mike Henran, of Peterport,
seizing the bridle and lifting the foundering horse's
head. This operation seemed like working him on a
pivot; for, as his head came up, his haunches went slowly
down. The other man laid hold of his tail, and lifted.
The worthy Priest anxiously surveyed the operation.

To Henran's criticism upon the qualities of his borrowed
steed, he assented; saying, “Indeed he's not that
light and easy goin' Pishgrew was.”

He looked on again.

—“I think ye'll never be able to carry him,” added
Father Terence, whose experience with quadrupeds had
been both slight and short.

The men knew what they were doing. “I thought I'd
start um aff this saft place,” said Henran, “the way he
could rest, a bit; and then we'd try and have him out.
Pull um over, on his side, then, you, Brien!” and he
held the poor beast's nose down, to prevent his plunging,
and the two men together got him partly on his side, and
then Brien took the saddle off from him.

“But if the body of him goes in,” suggested the Priest,
as he saw their manœuvre, “sure it'll be harder, again,
getting it out, towards having his legs, only, in it;” for
the Father saw, at a glance, that four slender separate legs,
each having special muscles of its own, and having flexible
joints, too, could be more easily extracted from the

slough, than a huge, round carcass, clumsy and heavy,
and without joints,—if it should once happen to get in,
and under the mud.

“But his body's too big, Father Terence,” said Henran,
who was no new hand at this sort of thing; “do ye
see the holes iv his legs isn't wide enough to take it
in.”

“Do you mean to leave him, then?” inquired the
Priest. “I'm not afraid of him running away; but I
think it's a cold place for him. I think he's fast, there.”

“Faith, then, savin yer reverence's presence, Father
Tirence, I'm thinking it's a fast he'd niver break,” said
Henran, who had an Irish readiness at a pun. “We'll
start um up a bit, after a little, and try can we turn um
round, th'other way.”

“But how will he get on, with his hind legs better than
his fore ones?” inquired the good Father again, very
naturally wondering what advantage there could be in
trying the horse backwards.

“We'll have to get um out iv it, ahltogether,” said
Henran, “and it's the shortest way back.”

“But won't we be able to go over?” asked Father
Terence anxiously, for he was eager to be at the end of
his journey.

“Brian'll be to take um round, Father Terence; and
if ye're hurried, I'm thinkin' we'd best lave um to Brien,
ahltogether, for it'll be the same wid every saft place we
come to. The wind's coming round cold; but it'll only
make it the worse for him breakin' through, for it'll cut
up his legs and hurt um badly. 'Twill be hard enough,
in three or four hours from this, that ye might take all
the horses that ever was over, an' they'd niver lay a
mark an it.”

It was slow and hard work getting the horse out.
They edged him round, after he had rested, and then
lifting him at both ends, urged him until, with furious
struggling,—lying down and resting now and then,—he
got, by little and little, out to the firm ground, trembling
at first all over, and scarce able to stand.

Father Terence adopted the advice, and, at the same
time, declined Henran's offer of his own beast; being, as he
thought, too big for him to carry, and his late experience
having, perhaps, made him loth to take the charge of such
a thing. So they budged on foot: Henran leading his
horse, an arrangement which was not the least comfortable
that they could make; for the wind began to come very
bitterly cold, and the exercise kept their blood from being
chilled. The little trees, and bushes, and moss, grew dry
very fast in the cold wind, and gave them little trouble;
but the walk is a long one, and the good Priest was
sorely fagged out by the time he trudged into New-Harbor.
It is a hard enough journey now; it was a
worse one, years ago.

The schooner was beating up the bay against the wind
that had so lately come round, and begun to make itself
felt; and Father Terence seemed to lose all feeling of
fatigue, and was out watching more eagerly than the
merchant himself, “Qui vidit mare turgidum, et Infames
scopulos, Acroceraunea,” who knew all the danger that
might come with a heavy blow, if the weather should turn
out thick.

The weather cleared off fairly, growing colder all the
while. The schooner came into the harbor (which is on
the west, popularly called the south-shore of Trinity Bay)
finely, early in the afternoon; and was made safely `fast'
at her stage. The first person that jumped ashore was

Mr. De Brie: grave-looking, bearing marks of the suffering
and struggles that he had gone through; but strong
and quick, and shaking himself to feel free from the irksome
constraint of the little vessel. Father Terence
withdrew out of sight a few moments before the vessel
got in.

“Now I must get a guide straight over to Castle-Bay,”
said Mr. De Brie, after a cordial greeting to the merchant;
“for I must be there at church to-morrow, God willing.”

“There's a man just starting,” said Mr. Oldhame; “for
Castle-Bay, too; but Father O'Toole is waiting to see
you; and has been on the look-out for you for an hour
and more. He came across on purpose, I think.”

A shade of regret passed over Mr. De Brie's face; and
he turned a glance of longing and disappointment toward
the woods and Barrens that lay between him and the
end of a long separation, and wretchedness, and wrong.
He said, “Perhaps he'd take this over for me, and
leave it at the schoolmaster's; I'll follow as soon as I
may.” He took a thick letter from his pocket, as he
spoke, and tearing it open, wrote a few words with his
pencil inside, and handed it to Mr. Oldhame, who promised
to seal and send it. His eyes then turned for an
instant upward; and then he asked where Father Terence
was, and (Mr. Oldhame not being able to say) sought the
worthy old gentleman in the merchant's house.

Father Terence's feeling was so great at the first moment
of meeting as to explain his having withdrawn, that
he might have the interview in private and unobserved.
Mr. De Brie, also, was very much affected. The old
Priest took the younger man's hand in both his own, and
looked upon him fatherly, while his words sought vainly
for utterance.

“Y'are welcome home again!” he said, when he recovered
himself, “Y'are welcome home! Come home
altogether, now!” and as he said these words in a tender,
pleading tone of voice, he gently drew the hand he held,
as if in illustration.

“Ah! Father Terence,” said Mr. De Brie, “thank you,
as I always shall thank you, for the kindness I have always
had from you! Thank you; but I have found my home
at last. I am at home once more.”

The old Priest was evidently pained. He still held
the hand, and drew Mr. De Brie to a chair, himself insisting
upon standing.

“He's away now,” he continued, “an' what's to hinder
you coming back? 'Twould have been a good job if he'd
never been in it at all.”

“You mean Mr. Crampton, I suppose?”

“Yes; just Crampton; he's off with himself for
good.”

“Ah! but Father Terence, it matters nothing to me
whether he comes or goes,” answered Mr. De Brie.

Father Terence hesitated; but soon said urgently,—

“But don't speak till ye'll hear what I say. I'm well
aware of the provocation ye had off him; and, indeed,
that's not the worst of him;—I wish it was. Sister
Frances, the poor, unhappy creature, has come back; I
suppose ye heard. We won't talk about that. God have
mercy on us!—But ye'll be shot of him now, and can
just take yer time quite and easy with the old man that
won't quarrel with ye.”

“If you'll let me say a word to that, Father Terence;—
love for you would have drawn me more than dislike of
him would have driven me away. It was no personal
question with me, as I always said. If he had been like

you, or if he had been like an angel, it would have made
no difference; nor, on the other hand, if you had been
like him.”

Mr. Debree spoke under restraint. The old Priest
looked in his face, while he spoke, and listened, apparently;
but seemed not to hear, as if he were occupied with his
own thoughts. Looking still tenderly in his face, he presently
spoke in a soothing voice: —

“Your mind's got disturbed and troubled with thoughts,
and ye want to rest. Come and help me, then, for a
little, and we'll bring you round, with the help of God.
Dunne'll be there, for the morrow, in case of me being
away.”

“No, Father,” answered the other, still speaking constrainedly,
“I can't do that work again.—I don't know
that, to God, my life's work may not be finished, in what
I have just done.”

“Come and rest, then, and let your mind settle; and
I'll give you the best rooms in the place. You should
have his, only it wouldn't be that pleasant; but the big
room up stairs, and the one I called my library, you
know; and you shall take your own way, just.”

As he mentioned the “library,” he forced a smile into
the midst of the sadness of his face; but did not persist in
the effort it cost him. His honest features took again
their look of affectionate anxiety and distress.

“Ye're doubtful and troubled; and ye shall do nothing
at all but just rest.”

“The doubts are gone, and the struggle is over, Father
Terence, forever.”

“Ah! That's good, then; ye can take it coolly. Ye
shall have your own time, and nobody'll stir ye.—That's
good,” said the kind-hearted old man.

“I trust I shall never fail in the respect and gratitude
I have always felt for you, Father Terence, and owe
you,” answered Mr. De Brie, speaking as if the words
were not what he had in his mind to say; but as if he
were loth to come to the point.

“Why would ye, then? Indeed ye never did; an'
we'll get on better, now, than we did,” said the old Priest;
but with a hesitation as if he, too, felt that something was
behind.

“My dear Father Terence,”— said Mr. De Brie, and
paused.

Father Terence hastened to interrupt him.

“Y'are tired; an' how could ye help it, indeed, an' you
just off the water? Let's see for a bit to eat, beyond,
at Hickson's,” said he; and then, recalling in a moment
the mutual obligations of hospitality, which none knew
better than he, with his Irish heart, he said “No; but we
won't be that rude to Mr. Oldhame here, that we'd go out
of his house for something to eat. Ye'll be the better of
it; an' I'll tell him.”

But there was evidently to be an explanation, and
Father Terence doubtless saw it. Mr. De Brie rose to
his feet, saying,—

“You must not make me sit, my good Father, while you
stand. I fear I shall give you pain by what I am going
to say; but I am sure you would rather know the exact
truth:—I have made open profession of my faith in the
presence of the English bishop at Halifax.”

“And have ye left the old Church, then?” asked
Father Terence, very sadly; not casting off but letting
go the hand that he had been holding from the first.
“Ye can't have done it!” and, as he spoke, he held his
hands together, upward.

“Ah! Father, the Church that has not only the old
priesthood, but the old faith, and the old worship, and the
old ways, is the old Church;—but I don't want to speak
of that; I only want to say that it is done, Father
Terence! Doubt and delay are ended; and my solemn,
pubiic act has been made.—I am a Protestant, forevermore,
until after the Day of Judgment.” In his turn,
Mr. De Brie gently took Father Terence's hands in his
own; and the old man let them be held; but sat down in
the chair, into which he had before urged his companion.
He shook his head, sadly, and then fixed his look upon
the other's face, and kept it there, so long, and with such
an expression of disappointment and bereavement, that it
seemed to go to the younger man's heart, for the tears
came to his eyes.

The old Priest drew away one hand, and smoothed his
decent locks behind; and presently drew the other slowly
away, also, and laid one on each knee. He looked, now,
neither at his companion nor any thing; but his honest,
homely features worked with the feelings of disappointment
and hopelessness which he strove to repress, but the
witness of which he did not, or could not hide. Then he
drew up toward the fire.

“It's no use me saying more!” he said. “I didn't
think ye'd have done it! I didn't think it!—Isn't it
growing colder? I think it is.”

In spite of these last words, which implied that the sad
business which had brought him over, and was so near his
heart was now abandoned, his face still showed that his
heart, had not at all got rid of it.

“It has grown winter, out of doors, but you won't grow
colder, Father Terence. You don't believe a Protestant to
be a child of the Devil; or think that he can't be saved.”

“I don't say for that,” said the old Priest, who, whether
he asserted it or not, had never, in his life, been any thing
but liberal and charitable; “but to leave being a priest,
when ye were consecrated and set apart to it!”—

—“But I couldn't keep on with it, when my faith in
the Church was gone,” said the other, gently.

“I suppose not,” said Father Terence, rising and going
to the window, his eyes fairly wetted with tears.

“I do not expect to be again intrusted with a priest's
work,” said his companion; “nor do I wish it. I am
satisfied to work out my salvation as a private man, since
God so wills it. For the highest and happiest work that
man can do on earth, I am not fit; I have shown it.”

It was time to break up the interview, which could not
grow less painful by being prolonged; but Mr. De Brie
stood still, and waited for Father Terence's time. The
old gentleman stood before the window for a good while,
and moved uneasily, from time to time, as if engaged with
his own feelings.

“But must ye go out, altogether?” he asked, at
length.

“I couldn't help it. I cannot wish it otherwise.”

Father Terence turned round.

“Well, then, I believe ye've acted honestly,” said he,
again putting out his hand, which his companion came
forward and grasped, heartily, and with much feeling.
“May ye never be the worse of it!—Stay!” said he,
correcting himself; “what's to hinder me saying `God
guide ye!' anny way?”—He hesitated, and then said,
“and bless you, and bring ye right!”

Mr. De Brie put the fat, kind hand, that he held, to his
lips, and kissed it; and then opened the door, and they
joined Mr. Oldhame.

The afternoon had been wearing away; the wind was
blowing cold, and heavy clouds were drifting in the sky.

“The man that took the little parcel for me, must
be pretty well over, by this time, probably,” said Mr.
De Brie to the merchant, exerting himself to speak
cheerfully.

“Yes, I think he's near Castle-Bay, sir; and I'm glad
of it; for we're likely to have sprawls of snow, before
long, I think,”

“There's no danger in the woods?”

“Not so much; but on the Barrens it isn't safe even
for an old hand.”

Father Terence did his best to be in good spirits, that
evening, having accepted the merchant's invitation to
stay; but he was not cheerful, after all. Mr. De Brie
was silent, and went often to the window or the door, and
looked forth upon the night. They retired early.