CHAPTER XXII.

THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

After a few weeks spent in the company of Eugene and Annie, Mrs. Godfrey rallied somewhat, and the physicians prescribed change of air. Her insanity had somewhat subsided, but she was now dull and stupid, utterly unlike her former self, and her illness had affected her limbs also so that she was obliged to be wheeled in a chaise-longue from one place to another.

The place chosen for their new abode was a lone house within half a mile of the sea-coast, the road to which lay in a beautiful valley between two hills of considerable elevation. On the highest of these was a light-house, which gave warning of the perilous nature of the coast, while the neat little white dwellings of the coast-guardsmen, at the foot of the hill, betokened that this was a locality famed for smuggling excursions. Mrs. Godfrey was often laid on a couch placed on wheels, and drawn by hand to the beach on the sea-shore. The murmur {614} of the waves seemed to soothe her; and though she spoke very little, she seemed by slow degrees to be recovering her faculties, and now and then listened to the subjects discussed by her children, Eugene and Annie, who were seldom away from her, and who took work or study to the seaside, that they might while away the long hours of attendance. After a little time they observed that when the weather was pleasant an old blind woman was often led from one of the cottages to a pleasant seat beneath the cliff, and that the two or three children who played near her seemed to regard her with equal reverence and affection.

The old woman knitted in the sunshine, now and then interrupting her work to tell her beads or relate short stories to the young ones. In the evening a tidy young woman, of most pleasing appearance, would come to lead the blind woman home. This happened so often that the faces became familiar, and Mrs. Godfrey began to watch for them as for interesting objects, and at length she also began to wish to form their acquaintance. One afternoon she had her chaise-longue wheeled up to the side of the blind woman, and kindly inquired after her health.

"I am well, madam. Thanks for your inquiry," was the reply.

"And is this your daughter?" asked Annie, pointing to the young woman who was just come to lead her home.

"She is my son's wife, thanks be to God, and sure no daughter of my own could be better to me, who am but a burden to them all."

"Don't talk of burden, mother dear," said the young woman. "Sure, what should we do without you? Don't you teach the children their prayers and their catechism, and without you shouldn't we be almost like the heathens in this land of--" She paused and colored.

"Heresy," suggested Eugene, as if concluding the sentence for her.

"No offence, sir, I hope," courtesied the woman.

Eugene took up the old woman's beads which had fallen to the ground, reverently touched the cross with his lips, and restored them to her. "No offence at all," said he. "This is a land of heresy and of infidelity, and it cheers us to find out now and then one who continues faithful to the truth. Where do you live?"

"In the white cottage yonder, sir."

"And your husband belongs to the coast-guard?"

"He does, sir."

"And is he a Catholic also?"

"Glory be to God, he is!" said the old woman.

"But how do you manage? Can you ever go to mass?"

"Not often, sir."

"Is there any priest near here?"

"None that I know of nearer than Arundel Castle. The Duke of Norfolk has a private chaplain, they say." This was all that could be drawn from the parties on that subject. They evidently feared to compromise some one by speaking more plainly.

After this day Mrs. Godfrey seemed attracted to the poor blind old woman. She had always been benevolent, though she seldom took a strong personal interest in the object of her bounty, and beyond relieving physical want had little idea of doing good. Now a new idea had taken possession of her, she appeared to feel reverence for the cheerful sufferer, and treated her with a proportionate respect and sympathy.

"Is your husband long dead," she asked.

"May God rest his soul! He has been dead these ten years."

"And how long have you been blind?"

"Nearly as long, praise be to God! I took the fever immediately after, and the disease fell into my eyes, and when I recovered I was blind."

"Do you praise God, my good woman, for making you blind?"

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"And why not, my lady? Sure 'tis he that knows best what is good for us, and what is most for his own his honor and glory."

"But how can his honor and glory be promoted by your being blind?" asked Mrs. Godfrey, as a dim recollection of Euphrasie crossed her mind.

"Faith, then, and its little we know of such matters, and less that we can tell. But we are sure that God created us himself, and wishes for our love and service; and often when things go well with us we forget him, and love ourselves and our friends so much that we neglect to serve him; then he sends sorrow to recall us to himself, and for this we should bless him."

"But has not God commanded us to love our neighbor?"

"Yes, my lady; but it must be with a holy love that we love our neighbor, because he is the creature of God, the child of the same Father. Many our kind from a dislike to feel pain or to witness pain, but this is not the true worship required by God, who says we must love him with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our strength. This real love submits in all things to his holy will, because it gives 'self' into his keeping."

"But if you could see you might read of God, and learn to love him better?"

"I never could read, my lady," was the reply.

"Then where did you get your knowledge?" asked Annie.

"The priest taught me my catechism, my lady and every Sunday and holiday he explained it, and for many a long year I never missed the lesson. Then we often had instructions at Mass, and he taught us the rosary and the way of the cross. Ah! it is not the good father's fault if the children of his congregation do not know their religion."

"And you never went to school?"

"To none other than the school of poverty which our Lord founded and blessed," said the old woman. "Oftentimes we had scarcely potatoes enough to eat, though we little ones tried to work as well as the big ones; but labor was worth very little at that time, and afterward my father took sick and lay for a long time helpless. We had hard times of it in my young days."

"And did your mother take it very much to heart?"

"No, not very much. She grieved when my father died, though she hoped and believed he was happy, and would smile through her tears while she told us so. But for the rest, we all knew that it was not fine clothes or dainty food that would make us happy: we knew that we should have as much of both as it was God's will to send us, and we tried not to wish for more. When we were cold and hungry mother would gather us round her, and talk of that solemn midnight at Bethlehem when, under the clear frosty sky, the angels came to the shepherds, singing songs of glory, because the Lord of heaven and earth lay poor and helpless in the stable at Bethlehem. Then she would tell us of the long, dreary flight into Egypt, when Mary and Joseph begged hospitality by the way, because they loved poverty, for it made them more immediately dependent upon God. Then she showed us the poverty of Nazareth, and of the time of his ministry, who had not where to lay his head; and we became not only reconciled to poverty, we tried to love it for his sake, who became poor for our sakes. So you see, my lady, we could not be unhappy even when sorrow was upon us."

"Twas a sublime philosophy," said Annie.

"Rather say a glorious religion, Annie!" said Eugene. "Well might the boast of the gospel be that it was preached unto the poor."

Conversations like these brought a new train of ideas to the minds of both mother and daughter. Patience, meekness, and humility were embodied before them, bringing with them such childlike confidence in the providence of God that they could but feel such religion to be indeed reality.

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