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A choir practice had kept the Rector late, and all lights were out in the half dozen houses that cluster here, forming that portion of the village of Westcook distinguished as "The Bito." Even Smith Anderson's store, wherein was usually maintained till the small hours an animated discussion of everybody's business, was now silent and deserted. The "balm o'Gileads" in front ware creaking lonesomely. A quarter of a mile further on the Rector j drove into a readable brook, that he might quench Jerry's thirst for the night and save himself the toil of drawing water out of the deep rectory well. As he dismounted to let down the check-rein, a gust blew off into the brook his broad brimmed clerical black felt, and Jerry thrust his nose into it affectionately. But the Rector was not one to be vexed at trifles. He only said softly to Jerry, “Dear me, how provoking!" rescued and wiped the hat, settled it on his head somewhat decisively, and returned his drive, the damp brim flapping in his face. As he reached the lane which leads to Bainbridge's shipyard, he gave a careless glance in that direction, past the square, old-fashioned house, put the thick clump of fir trees behind, till his eyes rested on a lofty bull looming high up on the stocks. But his next glance was not careless. Old Jerry was turned short and driven wildly down the lane, grieved under the unaccustomed whip-lash. But in front of the house, he was left to his own staid devices, while the Rector, after pounding violently on the door and shouting "Fire! Fire!" rushed on to the yard, where long flames were streaming out before the wind and flapping insidiously about the towering stem. Seizing a tar-bucket and ailing it from a spring in the centre or the yard, his vehement exertions had gained control of the flames ere the workmen, half dressed and armed with pails and tubs, came swarming out of the house. The ship was saved, but had the Rector come five minutes later, or been less energetic on his arrival, with such a wind as was then blowing, the fire had soon roared its mockery at men and tubs and tar-buckets. So it was only as it should be if they named the vessel after him who rescued her on that windy night. They called her the “C. C. Rawdon," and all the folks in the village declared she would bring good luck to her owners, or else there was nought in a name.
As the rector returned to the house and arrested Jerry's attentions to the lettuce-patch, an old lady appeared at the door, with a great plaid shawl drawn over her head and shoulders compensating at that hour for any deficiencies in more regular clothing.
“A lucky thing! It was most providential that I came by just when I did, Mrs. Bainbridge! Five minutes more and nothing would have saved her!" was the Rector’s greeting.
"Aye, Mr. Rawdon," answered the old lady, "and Reube'll never be able to thank you sufficient! He'd 'a' been wild if she'd gone. But, Mr. Rawdon—I can't help it— you'll say I'm worse than foolish — I'm ongrateful, and put more faith to dreams 'n to God's goodness— but I wish she had gone. There ain't any good a-comin' of her. I'd liefer most any-thing than have Reube sail in her; but he's made up his mind an' he's set on it, an' ' he'll go unless somethin' outl of the common turns up, an’ I mistrust no good 'll come of it."
As she spoke the old lady kept shaking her head despondently over the candle, which she guarded from the wind with a corner of her shawl. The candle was intended for an assistance to the Rector, but only served to throw him and Jerry into deeper gloom, while it lit up the old lady’s face and a section of the house-front over her head. The Rector laughed gently at her forebodings.
“Oh, come, come, Mrs. Bainbridge! You're too sensible a woman to be giving way to superstitious fears and presentiments. You'll laugh it them yourself as heartily as anybody by the time daylight comes. What ill omen has troubled you now? Let me see if I can't interpret it more favorably than you have done!"
In spite of the mild ridicule of these words, there was a tone of kindly interest in his voice which induced the old lady to continue:
“I always did have a queer feelin’ about her ever since that night Reube got home so late from Dorchester Corner and told me how as it was all settled he was to go captain of her. And right at the very moment he was a-sayin’ it, Jeph set up a bowl out under the window, as if he seen somethin', an' the chickens back in the old barn woke up an' crowed. There ain't a worse sign than to have chickens crow at that onnatural hour, and Jeph's howlin' made it worse 'n ever. Thinks I to myself, it's all along o' Reube's bein' a-goin' to sail in that ship, an' I said so to Reube. But Reube only poked fun at me an' seemed so mighty pleased about everything that I didn't say much, after all. But last night, Mr. Rawdon—last night I'd a dream as would have frightened you yourself if it was a boy of yours you'd dreamt it about. It's an oncommon thing for me to dream, anyhow, an' somethin' has always happened after every dream as ever I had. When poor Joe Turner drove over the bito two year ago come next March I wasn't a mite surprised. I'd kind of expected it after dreamin' I saw him a-workin' so hard to mend the pines where the rails was down — him as never did a hand's turn in his life. Many an' many’s the time, when things have gone bad for folks round, I've looked back a-ways an' thought of some curious dream as I'd had about them. Well, as I was a-sayin’, last night I’d a dreadful dream, an’ ‘twas all about Reube an’ the ship. I dreamt I went down into the yard to tell Reube Mr. Hickson was in the parlor wantin’ to see him, an’ I found Reube a-standin’ right close under the big, black side of the ship, lookin’ up at the bulwarks where one of the men was a-pointin’. Just as I was a-callin’ him to come up to the house I saw the ship make a start to roll over an’ all, the big timbers a-holdin’ of her up began to crack and snap off. Reube saw it, too; but when I screeched at him to run he just turned round his face to me an’ smiled sort of pleasant like. Then the big, black hull rolled over an’ settled right down on him, an’ a great cloud of chips an’ sticks an’ broken timbers flew up in the air with a roar. An’ the cans of paint that was on deck spill, an’ kep’ on flowin’ over an’ over everything like a river of thin mud, till all the ship-yard was just like the honey-pots in the big flats, a-shinin’ an’ oily-like on top. An’ I seen-an’ I seen Reube sinkin’ down in the middle of it: an’ he kep’ on sinkin’, till all I seen was one hand above the mud, clutching for somethin’ to take hold on. Then I woke up a-cryin’ an’ I couldn’t not more stop for a good bit, it looked so awful real. At least KI went down stairs to Reube’s room to make sure he was all right, an’ I laughed right out, it did look so good to see him a-sleepin’ there all safe an’ comfortable, with one arm under his head. But the other arm was stretched out so, an’ his hand reached over the edge of the bed, somethin’ like it looked in my dream; an’ I vowed there an’ then he shouldn’t sail in that ship if there was any way I could stop it. So there’s just the whole of it, Mr. Rawdon; an’ maybe you won’t think it queer if such an awful dream kinda of upset me a bit. An’ ‘t’s my belief dreams ain’t sent for nothing.”
The Rector listened attentively to every word of this, while Jerry devoted himself to the lettuce-patch unhindered, and when the old lady’s trembling voice was silent he re-plied:
“My dear Mrs. Bainbridge, I don't blame you, indeed, for feeling pained over such a terrible dream. But I do blame you for letting it dwell on your mind or for attaching to it any importance whatever. The dream itself is the result of your own superstitious attention to omens and that sort of thing, coupled with your very natural reluctance to have your son undertake so long a voyage. Believe me, if you hadn't thought so much over the mere coincidences of the dog howling and the cocks crowing that night yon would never have suffered this dream. Besides, this is disloyalty to your faith. And don't you suppose that if the loving Power which watches over you thought best to detain your son from this voyage, he would employ some means more potent than a somewhat incongruous dream? Don't damp your son's ardor and make his departure more painful by efforts which I well know will be quite in vain. And as for your forebodings, when they will arise, remember on whom to cast all your cares and doubts, in whom to put your trust."
By this time the Rector had taken his seat in the Carriage and turned Jerry's head homeward. With a final "Good night!" and "God bless you!" he drove rapidly up the lane, and soon he was enjoying the well-earned luxury of dressing-gown and slippers and a cosy study. The old lady watched him out of sight, still holding the flaming candle zealously. Then she went inside and closed the massive rod door, saying to herself, "Ay, I know’t there can't a thing happen without He lets it. He holds us in the holler of His hand. But Reube ain't goin' to sail in that ship if so be as I can hinder him."
CHAPTER II.
The village of Westcock takes its name from the old Westcock Place, the home of the Bowdoin family for generations. Westcock Place is a spacious square mansion near the foot of the uplands, looking out across the marsh, across the tawny waters of the bay to the Nova Scotia shores and Minudie. Behind its great array of dependent buildings-sheds and yellow carriage-houses and low red barns, suggestive of infinite capaciousness and comfort—deep groves of ancient fir trees afforded safe shelter against winds from the north and northwest. The house itself, built of brick and painted cream-color, with many tall chimneys of like hue, must have had rather a dazzling and uncomfortable effect on the landscape in the freshness of its first brilliancy; but now time, with the aid of sharp New Brunswick winters, had mellowed the strong tints and toned them down, shattering the brisk surface here and there and suffering the red to show through. The grounds are enlarged from the main road through a high and massive white arch, surmounted by a white wooden ball, most grievously weather beaten. Thence a broad carriage-way leads past the house to the right and back to the out-buildings in the rear. On either side the main gateway stood two smaller arches, each with its white surmounting ball, lending countenance to the ambitious plan of the central arch, and tendering admission to foot-passengers. Their invitation, however, had gone so long unheeded that these side gates now were securely bolted up, which saved them much banging and groaning and unprofitable labor under the over-busy winds. In fact, In fact, as the central gate always stood wide open, pedestrians used to lavishly disregard the waste of space and enter by the carriage way. It may be the need of the smaller entrances never occurred to their minds. Immediately in front of the house, and separated therefrom by a stone pavement and half a dozen broad steps, was spread a well-kept lawn, set with acacias and magnificent horse-chesnuts, and divided from front to rear by a gravel walk reaching the road through yet another white archway. Beyond the lawn a frail-garden, extending far to the left, and bordered by plank-walks fringed with currant and gooseberry bushes, and to the rear of this a roomy kitchen-garden, running back to the orchards and the groves. Kitchen-garden, lawn and fruit-garden were surrounded and separated from each other by trim-clipped hawthorn hedges of faultless symmetry, with lindens and butter-nuts set in the corners or at other posts of vantage. And everywhere reigned supreme the white arched gateway, the statuesque white hall. But everywhere also was visible the effect of that soft gray wash which time, with impartial brush, so pertinently applies. Yellow shods, low red barns, ochre-colored high brick walls and chimneys, black roofs and white imposing arches— all had felt the spell of that gray touch, all mailed down in mellow warmth amidst the green of groves and hedges.
Such is Westcock Place externally. Within all is hospitable, roomy, dim, warm and quaint. High-ceilinged, ample-windowed square chambers, warmed by old- | fashioned fireplaces bright and gleaming brass andirons, and fitted with curious and massive mahogany furniture of various times and climos. Moose hides were scattared about the floors. Over the door-ways were fixed the broad, many-pronged antlers. In the dining-room of Westcock Place, some three weeks after the narrow escape of the “C. W. Rawdon," a small party met at dinner. The guest was the Rector, whose genial presence and inexhaustible flow of vitality had produced their usual effect upon Judge Bowdoin, rousing him to many a stately pun, venerable anecdote or inappropriate quotation from the classics. The rest of the party, the full complement of the Judge's family still remaining at Westcock Place, were his orphan niece, Miss Merritt, and the child of his old age, his only daughter, the “Miss Marjorie" of the village people. These two took but a limited part in the conversation. Miss Marjorie, a graceful girl of twenty-two, of middle height, with abundant black hair, clear-cut features, somewhat pale, a mouth serious and firm but passionate, and with lips of vivid scarlet, was abstracted in manner, and attentive chiefly to her own meditations, which did not seem over-agreeable. Miss Merritt, on the other hand, was all appreciation and smiles. Full of inoffensive and winning little affectations, as the Rector's sallies became more audacious or more brilliant she would insert an exclamation of, "Oh, my patience, Mr. Rawdon, how ridiculous! " with such a small paroxysm of laughter as would let slightly nodding some stray dark ringlets on her forehead or perhaps even shake off her glasses into her lap. This accident invariably brought a sudden change to her face—a look of bewildered anxiety and helplessness. Down would go her head nearsightedly as aha groped for the precious glasses. There being regained and restored to her eyes, once more she became the animated audience, keen-willed and cultured behind her little affectations, well capable of holding her own in all discussions whenever opportunity was given her.
The only other presence was that of Carson, the butler, a truly privileged personage. As the Judge's swarm of energetic sons had one by one left the old place for wider fields, Carson had gradually diminished the distance between himself and his master 'till he became, as it were, the Judge's right hand, and more of a friend than a servant. So if, as often happened, while removing the big silver covers in the dark mahogany sideboard, or pouring water into the blue and emerald and amber glass finger-bowls, which the Judge's conservation still retained on the table, he should chance to join deferentially in the conversation, or contribute some interesting items, this was taken as a matter-of-course. Being Carson, it was all right, and Carson’s stately courteousness and elegant air of deference prevented the least suspicion of familiarity.
The Judge's dinner hour was half-past five, sharp. The two spacious windows of the dining-room faced southwest, admitting liberal supplies of afternoon sunshine, which flooded one wall and a section of the table, setting two or three of the colored bowls ablaze. Miss Marjorie sat opposite the windows, and her gaze, passing over the paved courtyard, the white fences, and the somber rows of Lombardy poplars skirting the limits of the marshes, rested somewhat wistfully upon a distant grove of oaks crowning an elevated point where the uplands jut out upon the bay. This is known as "Snowden's Point," or "The Oaks." Beyond it the widening waters seemed to lead directly to the open sea. And thither Marjorie's thoughts would turn persistently. But when the Rector began to talk of " his ship,” which was to be launched on the morrow, her gray eyes were on his face at once When he spoke of poor Mrs. Bainbridge her superstitious anxiety and her fearfully vivid dream, Carson joined in with "Ay, your reverence, it’s a peck of trouble she's in, what with her dreams and her signs. But it’s good right she has to be a mite careful ever such a son as Captain Reuben is. He's just the apple of her eye. There ain't a body known him hut respects him, and every one has a good word for him, with the exception of those Point chaps that run agen' him las' spring when they was pelting old Mrs. A'kisson’s windows."
“Captain Bainbridge seems to be a favorite of yours, Carson,” answered the Rector. “Since the ship is my god-child, I would have her always do me credit. And I shan’t have much anxiety on that score so long as she is in charge of her present captain. But did you hear what time they expect to get her off, and when she leaves for St. John?"
“Takes a cargo of deals for McLean, doesn't she, and then goes into the Pacific trade?" said the Judge.
"Oh, dear me!” smiled Miss Merritt, " I hope the horrid Pacific Islanders won't get possession of him!" (meaning Captain BainBridge). I have not the least doubt they would like him immensely, if they are discriminating savages. But then, you know, they might show their appreciation in such a horrid way!"
Here Marjorie spoke: "He probably knows pretty well how to take care of himself. Cousin Ellen. I don’t think— Are you very anxious about him, Cousin Ellen?"
She began this rather hastily, but ended in a light, bantering tone, looking quickly round the circle; and the Rector turned toward her with a few quizzical wrinkles about his eyes. She met his gaze steadily, but he noted an unwilling flush in her cheek, a shade of trouble in the gray eyes. At once his quizzical glance became one of sympathy, and then turned from scrutinizing her. In the pause that followed, Carson again found his opportunity, and gave an answer to all.
“Yes, Miss Marjorie," said he, "Captain Reuben can look out for himself well. His eyes are wide enough open, Miss Marjorie. They’d like to get her off, your reverence, by six o’clock in the morning, as soon as the tide turns. Mr. Hickson’s tug, the “Sontay,” ‘ll be there to take her out of the creek; and if this wind holds she’s like to start with the next ebb to-morrow evenin’. As soon as she gets her load she starts for Liverpool, and then for them outlandish foreign parts Miss Merritt was speaking of. But it’s a new thing round these parts to launch her all ready for sea, and some folks think it’s a terrible mistake, and there’ll be an accident. I was speaking with Coxen about it last night, and I told him my belief that there wasn’t going to be no accident; that the name they gave her was going to keep her clear of such misforchin.”
To be Continued.