University of Virginia Library

61. CHAPTER LXI.
FATHER DE BRIE IS WAITED FOR, AND SOUGHT.

ST. ANDREW'S Day and Advent Sunday came
together, that year, and found the earth all white
with snow, six or eight inches deep, fallen in the
night. It was falling in the early day, but none fell
for two hours before church-time. Rough storm-clouds
possessed the sky; the sea looked dark and cold.
The wind blew steadily, (not very sharply,) from the
north.

The flag was at half-mast, (it being within half an hour
of service-time,) and Mr. Wellon was just going out of his
door, when, plodding along, well-wrapped in shawls, and
with her feet cased, over her shoes, in stockings, Miss
Dare appeared, coming up to his house.

“News! and good news!” exclaimed she, when the
Minister had got near her. “Mr. De Brie, — or De
Brie-Barrè,—is to be at Church, to-day; he's just home,
and is to take the Communion, for the first time, with his
wife. She wants thanks given for a safe return, if you'll
be good enough to remember it.”

A bright smile began the sentence; bright tears
ended it.

“Thank God, indeed I will!” said the Minister.

She bowed and turned back upon her steps, without

another word. Mr. Wellon, too, instead of going on, first
went back, for a few minutes, into his house.

He was absent-minded, that day, in speaking to the
different little parties who loitered for him, or for others,
and whom he overtook, in the new-broken snow.

Late as it was, he turned aside and went quickly into
Mrs. Barrè's house. She was ready to go to church.

“You see I have my bride's clothes on, Mr. Wellon,”
said she, trying to smile, as she called his attention to her
deep-dark dress. The smile flickered and went out, as
if the tears that came in spite of her had quenched it.

Ah! no one can tell what is in woman, or in humanity,
till he has known a noble wife. There is no other such
thing on earth.

Pale and beautiful in her wifehood,—trembling, as the
hand told him, while he held it, the look of her not only
struck the Minister speechless, but seemed to fill little
Mary with a tender awe. The English servant wept
quietly; and another woman whom she had got here,
sobbed without reserve.

“I do believe,” she said,—“I trust,—that if I should
never lift my knees, again, from before the altar, (if God
permits me to take that sacrament with my husband,)—
I do trust that the strongest wish I had, for this world, has
been satisfied.”

“Many long, happy years to you!” said the Minister,
pressing her hand and breaking away from her.

“Is it nearly church-time?” she asked, evidently
listening, all the while, for a foot-fall in the entry, without.

“Yes; I must say good-bye. God bless you!”

“He might go down the nearest way, if he were very
late,” she said.

“He may be late, too; for it's hard walking this morning,”
answered Mr. Wellon, lingering.

“Oh yes! you must hurry,” she said. “Don't stay
with me, much as I should like it. Good morning! I
shall follow.”

He looked back, often, on his way to church, and from
the church-door. As he went up the aisle from the vestry,
his step was quicker than usual, and his look nervous.
He cast a quick glance all round the church from Mrs.
Barrè's, seat, on rising from his secret prayer; he read
the Exhortation in an excited voice.—For any one who
might look closely, it was to be seen that Miss Dare,
whose seat was in front of Mrs. Barrè's, and who stood
with her eyes intent upon her Prayer-book, had something
very unusual in her manner.

The Service went on: Confession, Absolution, Lord's
Prayer, Versicles; the Priest said “O God make speed
to save us!” the people answered “O Lord, make haste
to help us!” when the door of the church was opened,
the cord running over the pulley rattled, and a face that
would not be forgotten in a lifetime showed itself in the
opening. Mrs. Barrè, more widow-like than ever,—her
gentle cheek paler, her black dress blacker,—was there,
and her look was wild and fearful. She was there but a
moment, and the door closed again behind her. She had
gone out.

“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost!” continued the Priest.

“As it was in the Beginning, is now and ever shall be,
world without end.—Amen!” the people answered.

A strange man opened the church-door, and looking
up to the Minister, as if to explain that he could not help
it, came right in, and choosing with his eye his man, went

straight to Skipper Isaac Marchant, whose seat was near
the door, and spoke a few words in his ear. The skipper
glanced up at the Minister a meaning look, laid down his
book, glanced up again at the Minister, and beckoning
with a slight motion of his head, to some young men of
his own family and others, who were near him, and who
were all ready, from what they had seen, went out with
the man, and they followed.

The church was all full of people,—crowded with blue-jackets;
(for our people were all back from Labrador,
and they all come when they are in the harbor,) there
was beginning quite a stir among the whole congregation,
on the floor and in the gallery.

The Priest paused, and leaning over said a word to
one near him, and waited for an answer. In a moment
it was brought to him.

“Let us pray!” he said, breaking the Order of
Morning Prayer; and the voice brought the hundreds of
people, already excited, (but waiting upon the Minister
instead of going forth,) to their knees, with one stroke,
like weapons ordered to the ground.

“O Great and Mighty God,” said the Priest, “Who
alone doest Wonders, Who seest a Path in the Sea, and
a Way in the Wilderness, and—Footsteps in the trackless
Snow”—one thrill of understanding, or of strange,
unworded dread went through all the people, like a chill
from the ice, (for there was one, same stir among them,
telling of it,) “go forth with us, we humbly pray Thee,
to find our Brother, who is lost! and in Thy safe keeping.
Oh, keep him safe, whom Thou hast kept, and bring him
safe, whom Thou hast brought safe through other Wanderings;
and oh, Most Loving Father! with Thy sweet
Help, bless her who has been long waiting,—through
Jesus Christ, Our Lord.”

“Amen!” said all the people; and Priest and people
rose to their feet.

The English Priest, trained in the old prayers, had
struck a vein of homely English, which all knew and felt,
through all their hearts.

“Brethren!” said he, “God has another service for
us, towards Him and towards our neighbor this day.
Let the women and those who cannot go, pray for us at
home.—Now let us ask God's blessing!”

They all kneeled down for it; but the Minister seemed
moved by an inspiration:—

“Walter De Brie!” he exclaimed, unexpectedly, and
took upon his lips those words, that have cheered and
comforted so many near to death, as if he could speak
out into the Waste of Snow: “Unto God's gracious
Mercy and Protection we commit thee. The Lord bless
thee and keep thee! The Lord make His face to shine
upon thee, and be gracious unto thee! The Lord lift up
the Light of His Countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace, both now—and—EVERMORE!”

One sob burst forth aloud from Miss Dare; then
there was silence, and then the Clerk and people said
“Amen!”

And then came the Blessing: “The peace of God
which passeth all Understanding, keep your Hearts and
Minds in the Knowledge and Love of God, and of His
Son, Jesus Christ, Our Lord! and the Blessing of God
Almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be
amongst you, and remain with you always!”—“Amen!”

The service in the House of God was done, for that
day. The people poured forth. The Minister said a
few words to Miss Dare, whose face was all marred with
tears, and then hurriedly followed them.

“Right over to the Barrens: he was on his way across
from New-Harbor!” said he, as he came forth, and hurried
on, staying for no parley. The New-Harbor man
who had come into the church, had gone on, as fast as
possible, before.

The fresh, loose snow was hard to walk in, as they
went, but no man thought of lagging. Men crowding
the way made way for the Parson, and followed faster.
There was no time lost among them. Among the foremost,
and every where, among the crowd, were women.
For plan and order there is a sort of standing organization
of our fishermen, under their skippers, sufficient for
the purpose of such a work.

The Parson stopped and looked in hurriedly at Mrs.
Barrè's; the door was open; the house was empty. He
hurried on, faster than before.

Whoever in the harbor had a horse, turned aside to his
house, and, harnessing it in haste, mounted and hurried
on. The dogs from the whole harbor swelled the sad
search. As Mr. Wellon came forth, mounted, his great,
black, kind-hearted “Eppy,” of whom Mr. De Brie had so
lately said, playfully, that “they might be better friends
one day,” came forth also, as solemnly as if he knew that
this was no common errand, and stopped a moment in
the road, with his tail down, and sniffed the wintry air
from the direction of the Barrens.

The sky was leaden over all, and the cold wind came
sharply from the north.

On the little beach, near the meadow, which is so pretty
in summer, was a group of three persons; the middle one
being Mrs. Barrè, the two others Miss Dare and Skipper
George's daughter. Others lingered not far off.

As he drew near, the Minister threw himself from his

horse, and begged Mrs. Barrè to “trust the search to her
friends, who would not leave any thing undone that men
could do, and to seek some shelter. She might destroy
herself.”

“No! No!” said she, wildly, “he's in the open air! I
might die of waiting in the house. If I can't help it, I'll
go into some cottage by-and-by; but not yet.”

While she spoke, she gave him silently a letter, and as
he looked, somewhat confused by his feelings, at the outside,
she said, “The pencil-writing!” and looked at him
so earnestly, that he understood it as a mute request,
and read aloud, or rather in a voice broken,—

“`My own sweet Wife,—Father Terence was waiting,
and I can't slight him. I will come, God willing, the
first possible moment, to be with you at Holy Communion
to-morrow, and never to leave you again. Do you remember
the anniversary, Darling? That first Day in
Jamaica! Look at the Collect, Epistle, and Gospel for
St. Andrew, and apply them to me.—Till we meet, Good-bye!
Good-bye! My best and dearest! God be with you!
—Yr. own Walter.'”

Mr. Wellon made great effort at the words “Till we
meet;” but in vain. He could not read them in a steady
voice, or without tears. Mrs. Barrè kneeled right down
upon the snow, lifting her pale, streaming face and her
hands supplicatingly to Heaven; her young supporters
bore themselves wonderfully.

Mrs. Barrè was not long in summoning that tender
strength which she had shown in all her trials, and taking
her precious letter in her hand again, said, “Oh! Mr.
Wellon, do not wait! Do not let the snow come!”

“Indeed I won't!” said he. “What I would do for
my brother, I'll do for him!”

Past groups of men and women, and single riders, the
Minister hurried. The snow was still broken before him,
as he hurried on, and he passed party after party still,
of people from Peterport and Castle-Bay. Near the
edge of the Barrens, a place which has been described as
it was in summer, he found the foremost; the New-Harbor
man that had come to the church, and another
stranger, and with them Skipper George, Skipper Isaac,
Skipper Henry, young Mr. Urston, Jesse Hill, Isaac
Maffen, and Mr. Bangs. They were just coming to a
halt. Before them the snow had been broken only by
the two men that had come across.

While they were making their short and simple arrangements,
one of the strange men told all that there
was of story:—

“The gentleman had not come down in the morning,
and his chamber was found empty. Mr. Oldhame had
instantly made up this little party in pursuit. On their
way over they had not expected to find tracks, for
they were probably several hours behind him, and much
snow had fallen; but they found that he had not got
out.”

“Perhaps he never laved the t'other side, sir,” said
Skipper George to Mr. Wellon.

The Minister looked up at the New-Harbor man with
a flash of hope; but it was soon quenched. The man
said:—

“'E was for setting off, last evenun, a'most; but they
persuaded 'im off it;” and Mr. Wellon recalled the letter,
and said, with sad assurance:—

“He wrote to his wife that he meant to come, the first
minute he could get away, and hoped to be at the Communion
with her to-day.”

“Did 'e, now, sir?” said Skipper George. “Then I
make no doubt but 'e've atried it;” and the whole company
assented.

“They said 'e comed over once, without any body,” said
the stranger, “an' I suppose 'e didn't think o' the difference
o' the snow.”

“The poor gentleman! the poor gentleman!” said
Skipper George; “but mubbe 'e isn' dead. My maid
was brought back, thank God!”—but then, Skipper
George's boys and his orphan nephews had never come
alive out of the ice!

It was speedily arranged that they should push over to
the other side of the Barrens; and while one went
straight on to New-Harbor, the rest should take every
opening through the Woods, and every path into the Barrens,
and follow it out. Skipper Edward Ressle and
Skipper Abram Marchant, it was said, had gone along
the Bay-Road, to cross from other points.

The only hasty preparations now made had been to put
off every unnecessary weight to go back with the horses.
Some extra coats, and several bottles of spirits, the advancing
party took with them. Skipper Isaac gave the
parting directions to the men who took the beasts back.

“Ef snow doesn't come in an hour's time, an' keep on,
then, an hour after that, again, come in wi' the horses, an'
bide an hour, or thereabouts. Ef we'm not here, by that
time, we shall stay a' t'other side.”

Many had come up, during the short delay, and among
them came, panting, the Minister's dog, who had not been
able to keep up with his master. As they were now all
foot-travellers, he had no difficulty, and went before them,
in the dreary path toward the great waste of snow over
which the dreary wind came blowing sharply.

The dog mounted the hillock, a little way within the
Barrens, and giving a short, sharp bark, plunged down
the other side.

The men all rushed together; and in the gulsh at the
foot of the opposite rise, lay, black upon the snow, fair in
the mid-pathway, a still body, with the dog nozzling at it.